Aphasia
It leaves, rearranged to devolve or fade:
white flag's molten face, sunside. Not lost but losing.
Clouds funeral in gray and gray. How a nude
reclines, half painted. 

What can stop; what can't begin?—
processions boxed out, closeted. The way you fold
and tuck your words away. Citizen to windows,
glass comparison—dixie-hammered, looking down.

Then again—one pocket: scarred, slain, sleight, singed.
Less like welcome and more like salute—small anthems
sung out of obligation—it's all relative.
And what you can't quite say correct is moot, just loss—

is a rusted nail allowed to stay, is a shadow
engraved, is a card from cuff, is anything unnamed:
apotheosis, immaterial—to say a lowered flag, 
scattered cloud—how she's at last asleep.

These churning hues, what we leave out from the world.
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