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I would bring you this

and that

if only it would last.

 

But this is this:

saying goodbye

where the grass grows highest.

 

The orchids dead below our feet,

like tombs

we weight their brown and black.

 

They’re dead

you say.

It’s more than that.

 

It’s all the plans we made—

like bulbs that (planted)

never will come up.

 

Here, look here:

the    moon the    rocks the

draining pond.

 

And all the plants

we set in pots—

broken, frozen, root-bound.

 

[From the Watermark series]

 

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