to Sia

I didn't think I'd be using this poem, written on another occasion, to say goodbye to a dear friend.

(...)

It's perspective. Though. Going back

to that touch of a hand.

Nothing silky about it: linen cloth,

earthen sheet, solid mud,

And, then, the knocked off, cracked

parchment of this soil. Or that. And a handful smell of.

Remember the old, the leftover. The lineage.

She did. She carried. You and her(s).

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