by Chris Vaillancourt
What sign
of absence
does a normal man
have to enforce to
suggest
alone?
Sun burned snow?
Pockets of lint forever
needing to
be emptied.
A glance back
at a stream
of consciousness
that
used to
drip like water
into a
bell.
The sign
of leaving
is flashing.
It beckons
in
amber yellow.
You don't have to
whisper
secrets anymore.
I'm not listening.
November 29, 2009
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