blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsFall 2010  Vol. 9  No. 2
print version

Winter Stars

I’ve been through this
before in imagination,
since you were never predicted
to live this long.

The ambulance.
The hospital.
The white cotton gloves
left on top of the coffin.

And so now
that it’s the body twisting
itself to death
rather than simply
turning off
as predicted,

all of my prepared
expressions are useless.
And I’m left
like the amateurs,
wondering what
makes the trains sound
so beautiful
in the distance
in the twilight.  end

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