Nothing Left to Write

54lbs_picks_of_the_litter (1)
Nothing Left to Write

Thank God, there will never
be nothing left

to write. No morning when
some plaster wall

of the laundry renovation
doesn’t yield

at least a marble or toy
left by the boy

who lived in your house
long before you

and died with his father
in a plane crash.

You learn this from a man
on the street

who used to cut the grass,
your grass, his

grass—the boy’s grass,
I mean.

Never a day when nothing
can mean, when

lives don’t fall, almost
literally, out

of your sturdy walls. Never
not a knock

at the door, no grief ever
lost or all she wrote.

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