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The Door
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poppyromanov
When I first heard you on the phone
your voice had to be that ‘40s wartime voice
for it to get under my skin like it did,
after seven years asleep.

You’re at the beginning of something, you said,
and I’m at the end of something;

but you didn’t go away,
twice-born, three times, coming around,
rough cello.

Late days
I want to drive to your grave,
But I don’t belong to it.