next to night

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looking up
When the wind blows
do the dead lying deep
in anaerobic beds
feel a breath
through their bones,
and do they notice
hands that drop flowers
above their heads?
Do they stir
and mark the hours
between our calls
and miss us,
or fall
deeper into sleep?

As I look down
can you look up
and see how autumns
have turned my hair
how winters
have cracked my cheek?
Is love still love
when there
is no solace
I can tell?
Nothing I leave
that you can keep?

– Randy Wilson