If I Could Mourn Like A Mourning Dove by Frank Bidart
It is what recurs that we believe, your face not at one moment looking sideways up at me anguished or
elate, but the old words welling up by gravity rearranged: two weeks before you died in
pain worn out, after my usual casual sign-off with All my love, your simple solemn My love to you, Frank.
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