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Baggage Claim Cemetery

Will Grofic

I am here to see what the stones say, the irrigated sayings,
      the dents we make. Some last— an inscription, an adjective,
a noun or two, a testament of young life. The inscription of all

the questions, the dates that end and shatter a house of clothes,
      the windows don’t need windows. The glass will rust.
Rows of headstones like a street with no outlet, cars in reverse.

Two minds, two neighboring homes, two synapses firing
      and we reach for the same bag: an error or excess? I sit here
with some unattended luggage, a sun past the airport doors

looks like that final synapse misfiring. The conveyor belt
      of constricted cloth, not a terminal home,
but like the seasons failing to stop, like fall regrets the daylight

or leaves miss spring. Searching each bag, somewhere his suit
      was unbuttoned, buttons unattended, a mouth,
a body that stops reaching. Passengers take what they can

from trips. Journeys some say. But some bags
      shouldn’t be there, and they go around, meaning
my bags are doing the same, somewhere else.

Will Grofic

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