For Larry

Engrained on your face are paths

and rivers from that vineyard

you used to play in till you grew old

enough to lend a hand if you put

your cigarette down long enough

to grab a basket. Picking grapes

was never your calling, but then again

a life cut too short wasn’t either.


-I don’t know you. I don’t know what

your life meant, even to you. We’re all dying

to figure you out, scrambling to give

meaning to a dead man’s words.

But as any wise poet knows:

“This story has no point but stillness itself…”


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