For Dead Ones

I picture it: the dead ones
hang inside us, their names and faces fallen out, away
offshore, the remainder
coat our selves as mucous,
a silver-rimmed clear liquid
like droplets from a mare’s nostril
simple and wet,
the residue inside
where they coat choices and divisions and
hug the walls and web to watch us
go on and make love and when they ripen
fall by the beat of eyelids
so we may dry them
and have our brain thump out
the pleasure of crying then.


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