This is an old, old poem
Just so you know, the car is packed.
The boxes for the poor and sick
I’ve set out front. Unbric-a-bracked,
The rooms feel foreign. Take your pick
Of
where you’d like to squat. We’re left.
We’ve saved one leaf from every tree.
As we gain years, as they lose heft,
They’ll smell of dry mnemosyne.
We’ll hold that breath. The house, the yard,
Oh, they were ours, and now they’re not.
It’s hard at first, and it stays hard,
Not to forget those who forgot.
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