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Summer Debris


Daniel Ford


This afternoon is cool
for July. In its stillness,
the house says nothing to me.

Sawdust and matchsticks
gather on the scrap of lawn
I rent. Flowerless, it browns

slowly, despite the broken heat.
Two weeks late, I ponder
leaving something – a tie, cologne -

at my father’s grave.
But the notion collapses
under its own mock gravity

The ties hang in my closet,
the Clubman sits on my corner
of the bathroom sink.

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