Saturday, November 16, 2013


I had this dream: we were making up poems, face to the cemetery, were your sister used to live. We could see the edges of some crosses, of wood and stone.
Deep, you said, not marble.
It had been raining. The grass was wet. There was some barking nearby and out in the distance a plane was taking off.
You were playing guitar ... Odd thing, since you never had hands.

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