Saturnalia Ed Foster



For Armand’s Grave (2)


No great remorse—or want—

things move toward seclusion

when you, forgetting the verse,

remembering us,

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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