your friend, he lived with you for two years.
armando found your death from my questions,
angry as a man interrupted by storm, or left
at the last stop out of Tuscson. did you meet my
father when he lived alone in Phoenix for a year
as you did? your family moved to Arizona, walked
through the desert. does your sister like the smell
of your dresser she inherited, does your brother
shuffle his cards by himself? how could they live
so close and not feel the dry wind, bringing
sand and dust inside your room?
today, i read your obituary in fragments, bits and pieces
of newspaper, how your life became:
buried, entombed, a statue. inside, i can't read a word,
the sayings God once told his children to read over the body.
what happens now?
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=+= =+= =+= =O= =+= =+=