Diachronic

Just today I said:
no more you poetry,
no more us poetry,
no more what was poetry.
It was going well,
still is, and will be,
but some of my dust
is bound to stay with me.

I’d opened the box,
with the cards you sent,
or just handed to me
after you had given up
on sending
or just on me.
(But even that’s not fair.
You never did,
did you, really?)

Or at least not until
there was more of the memory of me
than there was of me.
Then it wasn’t as much giving up,
as letting things clear,
making space for the sofa
the table, the crockery.
For the shape of a home,
a different mind,
a different body.

And speaking of memory:
I also said something
about no more you,
no more me.
Less about fading away,
than ceasing to be,
entirely, the people we used to be.

Now there’s just the box of cards
you sent, or gave to me,
and some other things,
that stubbornly report
how things once were
between those who have ceased,
and keep ceasing, to be.

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