For Armand’s Grave (2)
No great remorse—or want—
things move toward seclusion
when you, forgetting the verse,
forget all the distance,
you and what you already are.
Without dreams, the flood, sacred
or not, covers the ground. All these
rustling leaves, as if gods spoke.
Death is death, no wishes, and
you, for one, can’t rub your fingers,
or memorize the change.
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