They have all gone
the dear ones, like birds.
And no trains ever come
from those blue regions,
no plane fly there.
Absence has become
a solider season —
Spring, a violent effort
of the imagnation.
All these letters
I have sent, they
twisted my heart
into a curious shape.
I’ve gone to war.
I don’t want to talk.
If someone ask, just say —
She’s gone for a walk
or something equally
bizarre.

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