Like mine are vanishing. To
Say that I was obscure in
My own time exaggerates
My celebrity. I am
Not the sherry in the glass
The neighbor left behind, I'm
The glass that broke, washing.
Vanishing into thick airs
Of conversation becomes
Me. I was never wholly
There. I was never wholly
Me. I was you, believe me.
If you did, where would you put
The chiseled urn that held me?
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