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Time is the great usher

playbills filling boxes in someone else’s attic.

I pack all your things and any beautiful person

walking by might fill you like I couldn’t.

May you rest in me as a gourd vine growing

around something lost to someone once

but claimed new by mulch and seed, tendrils moving

towards the sun, the sun lighting up the lank of your torso

beneath your shirt,

your shirt getting folded in a new way by someone else.

How I managed to always fold your clothes and never mine.

May the blight of us like sediment grow firm

the firmament of us grow soft

as new love congregates like candelabras

our hearts like everybody’s hearts

eventually back into the earth

the earth a clock, a false torch

in the hard drive

of the universe.

Rena Medow's writings and illustrations can be found in HASH, The Vancouver Sun, LunaLuna & VICE.

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