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People speak now of the
texture of absence,
the yellow nubbed air
in the street car replacing a stranger
with blue eyes and sideburns.
The small hovering
of cadmium in a lovers
spot on the couch.
Smear of ochre
above a swing.
Initially the fear of madness,
fingers being pointed
and rooms locked, kept lips
pressed together. Pursed
until whole nursing homes remained
full of beds, bleach, respirators
connected only to the walls.
Leaving people to grieve
with, not to.
