Lussier said
mourir, ce n’est pas finir, c’est continuer autrement.



that’s exactly it.

These days, you live in arrow-straight fencelines
in wire gates only you could close
behind every closed door and
around every corner

You are in
the crunch of antbed court beneath my feet, as I
miss a shot you wouldn’t have

You are in
the bullbar on your car
for that matter, you’re in
your car

You are in
neat rows of machinery
shelves full of books
sheds full of tools

and also in unmown grass
in unchopped wood
in holes where you never let holes appear

You exist in empty space:
the patch of bathroom benchtop where
your shaving things should be
the empty hooks behind the bathroom door
still reminiscent of dusty overalls

You linger in expressions and
stand just beyond conversations

and you live on in
the clink of ice at twilight
the crisp snap of a bottle being opened
in unspoken toasts and
swallows that taste of tears
as well as rum.

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