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sunlight still gets through here sometimes. i sit beside an oxygen tank as i write; periodically, i need it to breathe. i was reading some poems from the 1920’s today and was surprised at how little different people are. maybe now we talk more about approaching perfection. maybe we talk less. i have Aline’s phone number on my dresser today. it needs to be alone with itself.

every time Aline moves i get her new phone from a mutual friend, but i never call. don’t know what i’d say. i pick up the receiver and my oxygen starts to run low, or i suddenly need to go out and buy fresh tomatoes


Her shoes were tossed by the floor,
but collected on her way out.

Her coat, usually left on a chair or
by the bed, if she was in a hurry.

Her books, (she always had an armful)
were either stacked on a table, or left beside her backpack.

She never left without leaving something:
a trail of her self.

Her number (written on half an envelope)
still pressed onto the frigerator by magnet.

Where I first placed it.
Years ago.

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