I seem to have to make you dead, dead again, to hold you in
my mind so I can clearly have you,
because unless I do, you aren’t dead, you’re only living
somewhere out of sight, I’ll find you,
soon enough, no need to hurry, and my mind slips into this
other tense, other grammar of condition,
in which you’re welded to banalities of fact and time, the
reality of what is done eluding me.
C.K. Williams
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