Restless, Again
Daily, it seems, I rebury my father only to have him grow restless again, elbows of ash pushing against earth draped over like bedclothes; though in the snow there is no hint of blue, and the sky only gray to look up into, and all through the day the same procession of rooms and windows, I will have to bury him again, a spoonful at a time, until the planet holds him quiet and still and…
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