When he left
Cold water shock
Snail stalk sorrow
Busy with tasks and numbness
Salt at the door
Buckshot with anger for the castrating martyr unaware
No air when I walked into the still, almost padded room
Holding what was left
"He had that smile on when he got here,"
said the sculptor
When she goes
What then?
Listen to the echoed drips of fear and sorrow
Filling this tin vessel
What then?
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