by Hugh Fox

When she first died I thought that was
(button-off) IT, but every night when my
pills finally bring me into Realityland,
she’s there again, les jambes/the legs and
sarcasm about the evening not News but
‘Olds’ (‘One more story about a random
shooting in Chicago and ….’), but before
dawn trickles through the slits around the
drapes, her hands begin Rachmaninoffing
the stringless keyboard, and at least I
get the sound of fake ivory against fake
(Dominus Vobiscum) wood.

Watch & listen to Hugh Fox reading ‘Since’ at The Flea Blogge.
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