Away from leaf touch, from twig. Away from the markings and evidence of others. Beyond the shale night filling with rain. Beyond the sleepy origin of sadness. Back, back into the ingrown room. The place where everything loved is placed, assembled for memory. The delicate
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It is nice to be without answers
at the end of summer.
Wind lifting leaves from branches.
The moment laid down like something
in childhood and forgotten, until later,
when stumbled upon, we think:
this is where it was lost.
The sadness isn't their sadness.
The sadness is the way
they will never unpack the rucksack
of happiness again.
They'll never surface as divers rising
through leagues of joy, through sun
willowing through the bottom half of waves.
They'll never surface again.
Again and again,
they will never surface.