Some people, I expect, grow
Closer to other people, to love
And the love of loved ones, as they begin
To die, to know, to accept
Fully the knowing that they're going
To die. Others I know and know
I will never mention, grow
More remote from the threaded
Human fiction and the squinting
At the beautiful details of Bayeux
Or whatever their loves most resemble--
Unicorns, bedrooms with trees in them,
Delicate forgiveness holding hands--
And closer, closer, closer to this
Plateaued, unscrutinizing, atmospheric
World.
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