I am an elegy to be exhaled at dusk. I am an elegy to be written on a late October leaf. An elegy to be blown from its tree by a late October wind. To be stomped on & through by passersby old & young & dead & unborn. To be crinkled & crushed into tiny brown- orange pieces. & then collected, painstakingly, no, painfully, piece by piece, & assembled like a puzzle or collage or Egyptian god, but always incomplete, always a few bits & limbs missing. An elegy to be misplaced, stuffed away in the attic’s memory, & only brought out again once every occupant of the house has ceased. Yes, I am an elegy
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