Frank Bidart

If I Could Mourn Like a Mourning Dove

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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