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EG CUNNINGHAM FEAST OF WEEKS in the end what was worth leaving were expectations: of a story plotted security unfilled plots wait down the road in the cemetery my father says soon he'll go in search of a custom tombstone we friends teach good failure: of course of a marriage of that thought filling life remind us let us let go into the bird-blossomed evening. the painting of the sky recalls the sky, reconstitutes that brief cloud: a way of stopping time. may be like Billy says: water music—a band in the rain. if death be thinner than thin—gust of wind— orange fragrance— then time still to know what the sun is saying: some self-revealing transported until then, let us love this actuality linger in beloved specificity |