Letter From Home

I read of your death: a sentence
buried among paragraphs of nothing
in particular. I staggered like a drunk,

taking a punch. Losing you,
though I’d never possessed you,
was the first time I felt

broken. You were just
a girl until those words, and now
a generation has grown and gone and I

no longer see your face clearly, but still,
the sense memory of you and me
talking by the chilled cabinet
in a small-town supermarket,

still sometimes finds me
wanting.

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