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The chair, the bedside tables,
the TV stand come out
 
after she does, and then
the bed, each thing leaving
 
its weight in the rugs,
as if you’d erased these letters
 
carefully, leaving blanks
sharp as words. As if
 
I could erase her voice
from this cassette and listen
 
to her quiet open and close.
Carpet bright below the sills.
 
A memory of breath
heard beneath the door.
 
Maybe ghosts
don’t want to come back.
 
Maybe we keep saying
their silences between our words,
 
the shape of their voices
in ours, in ours
 
the warmth that haunts
their absent lungs. 
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