Man, you are man, mosaic--
One shimmering image, three kinds of smiles,
Ten frowns--

We think of loss
As a hammer; juggernaut;
Bowling ball; forest fire;
The river, shaving stone. I

But loss
Is an a
mbush, and each wind
Blinds me anew
With handfuls of sand

That were tiles

That were blue

That were gray

That were blue

Green eyes.

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