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Sport 42: 2014



The words for places, flora,
fauna, fit my mouth oddly.
I say them with care

as if driving a car I do not
own. That is the purpose
of a name, I suppose.

A place is not a thing, a
name is not a thing; things
are tarpaulins, kettles, piles

of wood, folding chairs, pens,
paper, ropes, glasses, hearing aids.
When I miss her, I find myself

missing the box of her curling
picture books, her threadbare
pillow case and flannel sunhat.

Her hair would fade in summer
and lose its softness, I know.
But the missing has to be done

on an angle. I can see the books
more easily than her face
and I still won’t say her name.