An Elegy

One linear family: from twine to bare ankles.
Running perpendicular to worn carpet,
swaying ever so slightly
in the exposure of open windows.
A first stanza begun elsewhere,
if at all.

Stacks of unpublished missives
aligned like lilting skyscrapers.
Pages drift off, tipped by orphaned toes,
lost amid cellulose canyons
where the etchings of languorous
remembrance drape
with listless abandon.

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