for Emily Hawkins

The past is kindling.
We are plagiarists of the unwritten
And the present keeps hanging around
Like a girl I owe money to.

The October beaches are quiet
Without you. This morning drifts
Of sand hissed along the shore
Like mist, the wind feeling out its own shape,
And I thought about the words
I would use to re-create it for you
People on couch
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