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by Christopher Ingham
For Andrew, a nephew, much missed.
He crouches, holding his dog.
An image printed on paper.
Glossy. His twentieth year smile
Remaining frozen; a still point,
Fixed in our ever-turning world.
His mother, once ever busy
In her constant enthusiasm,
Is now eternally busy
In a spiral of busyness.
His brother, a child imprisoned
Forever in a man's body
Lies in Andrew's bed, asleep.
Thumb in mouth, clutching the number
Plate stolen from the mangled wreck
As he once clutched a teddy bear.
His father stands, ever alone,
Looking through the westering sun,
Glinting from the tractor still, parked
Against the skyline, at acres
At acres of green sprouting fecundity,
But seeing only the sterile
Barrenness of his shattered dreams.
And I, I sit, awake again
At two-fifteen, the death call time,
And struggle to find words to fill
The void, to avoid facing
The reality of a world,
A universe, without meaning.
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