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Poem: Mattering 

It sucks to have a dead kid
for someone with such
a great capacity to enjoy
The simple things
—a sprig of spearmint
in fresh chilled tea
—the waggle of a
dog's hello
—the rainbow
in a water spray
Those things are there
It's true
And still observed
But instantly X-ed out (again and again)
By the next observation
The inner sonorous voice
that says:
What's the point? (over and over)
Your son is dead.


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