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Poetry

After their deaths I see them clearer.
The longer gone, the more is revealed.
Details I had no hope of knowing
now open like an Advent calendar’s doors
sprinkled with glitter and bright promises.

What they hid from my learning lest it might harm
now becomes the morals they were showing
until I think nobility is a white bone
deep in the earth under a named covering
where my latest frail flowers reside
and go to their dying with an equal pride.


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

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