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who will grieve
my going
who will make the bed –
or worry for a season
to things I should
have said

who will speak
my name aloud –
o’er rivers deep and cold
in places not yet written
to my soul

with promise cleft
by secrets sworn
beneath a jealous moon –
when first I died
ten thousand deaths
for you

who will weep
who will pray –
for moments almost come
for sunlight
where the night has been
for stars who mourn
alone

. . .