View of the machine shop from our childhood home [in the nights after the suicide]
where the machines conspire into the shape of my brother
but only in the dead of night, when the light’s most lonesome
& my vision’s gone blurry with lost sleep:
he’s impatient, unhappily turning some wheel or knob,
never looking up, despite the spotlight of my griefvision
illuminating the dead, night crowding his shoulders
among the endless machinations, these workings still taking shape
…
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