As I pour myself juice from
a pitcher--habit one of a thousand
I picked up from you--I survey my
too-white walls: a calendar, photos,
you and a heron, and the rest of the Core
Four, an award, a greeting card, I combat
the emptiness with
mementoes of you, just like
I never leave the house
without bracelet and bottlecap and paper
heart--you never realized it
was mine, begging you
to fill me with words and
phrases, relieve me of too much
white.
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