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how much of you
a part of me –
sands atop
the floor
as blossoms
where the trees have
burned away
how much of verse
is nothing more
than once
you were
and I
was counted back
in syllables
emptied to a page
folded to
a memory
the lineage of truth
someone said
tho I’ll be damned
if I remember why
the road
was less
the day you left
the sun no longer shines
to fill between
the whispers
rusted oak and flesh
how much I have
was your breath
becoming mine

. . .