David Aivaz
Remains
Above the hospital, the stars in black
are of the old school too: a son’s
not to be told. All it was
was “a bad day,” an ambulance for wailing,
night. All in her fond worn gown.
What we’d dealt in was complaisance, kin
to feeling. Dark sky, spell it out,
old habit broken, to be love
from the rote of lingering, from a star
its burr of light
nap fond stole worn
Page(s) 31
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