Half Mast

No sunset ever called for the
evening’s dim passage, not one, but this:
good ones, they die every day
every day someone’s son, someone’s
mother, or a distant aunt—passes away
many times every day, away, away
the low and the high, kind, selfish, no matter
they’re suddenly gone, just like that
and then their friends and relations
   | are left to grieve |
I cannot fathom how it is we ever
raise a flag above half mast.

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