"I will not weep

about your going until you pull out
of the drive. I will not lie at dawn,
arm draped across your chest,

leg flung over yours and grieve
the sun. And later, when you are gone
and I empty of you, I will invite

something into the void: an iris
from the garden, an image, still warm,
the willful insistence of a poem.”
-Pit Menousek Pinegar, from “Aubade"

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