The feeling in the chest is red: eruption spreading for whatever cause
as sunlight in the sycamores drains down to clearish orange.
And towns beyond the hills. And friends there. And my dead.

All possible: as if loose slivers from a life (blood shriek and joy shriek
and evenings rainbows rose by the rusted bridge in Bethel and this
warmth circling my rib cage now. . . o let me hold this) could be held.

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