update from sparkleup
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@ -78,4 +78,27 @@ She smiled — another blessing! — and nodded to me.
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"We sat in the solarium and spoke about what reading *is.* She spoke of taking a story or a poem and wrapping oneself up in it. She gave me an example. She recited a poem:
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> Too many suits move in too many lines.
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> They circle banquet tables, hawk-eyed,
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> hunting crudites, canapés, bruscheta.
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> Fingers ferry food — fish, perhaps — finding
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> slack-jawed mouths already open,
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> squawking at wayward children
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> or bemoaning The Market,
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> whatever that may be.
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> At some point, who cares how long ago,
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> death surfaced, claimed one, submerged again.
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> Who knows how well they knew him,
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> their backs turned, studiously
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> deciding that he is no longer of them?
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> one could never guess.
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> We can say his suit was very fine, perhaps,
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> that the room is tastefully furnished,
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> the coffin silver, the bar, open,
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> quite good, and none of them are drunk yet,
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> or at least none look it.
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> “Good man, good man,” they mutter,
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> doing all they can to convince each other
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> through well-rehearsed performances,
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> that this must be the case.
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> The silently bereaved already sit graveside.
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