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the drum of your passing won't stop practicing on my rib cage

the refrigerator
pops its knuckles
and ice cubes fall
into a tray
that doesn't feel,
as i prepare
for the chill
of an untamed Winter,
organizing your last words
into mortal rows
of memory
and a lantern
looks at me
like i'm the last window left,
so i tap the cold
to see if you will snow
into my brooding
and Tuesday
arches its back,
against the day you died,
with Monday's
Siberian breath
still trying

17 Nov 16

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