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George Perreault

i had this thought

it was a good one too,

made a little sense maybe, not

a capital Something but

damn how it startles

out on the edge of a memory

where the you is still here

and not a letter too late:

how you came to my daughter’s

memorial, there on the river

how you took

your middle child parasailing off

over Lake Coeur d’Alene

ohgod go on flying you,

flying the air

today, in the awful quiet

no scrambling for scriptured moat

or music to be rung, the flowers

disassemble by themselves.

this guest and that

like churn behind the boat

have spent themselves on shore.

there comes a hush

to village ways, that old dance

of news and meal:

clouds are counting every now

and sky has softened

near to lead.


George Perreault has published in journals and anthologies in the US and elsewhere.


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