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Shen
The
weight of dust
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You can debate grey into the colour
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of almost every subject matter, but on
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the matter of dates, two weeks late will
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always remain two weeks late.
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I'm still trversing the stage of denial
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to that of acceptance, but before I allow
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a pregnancy test to draw a thick red line
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across my life again, there's going to be time
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to clear things upstairs in the attic.
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Three years since I lost my only child.
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Two days after her second birthday.
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The past is perfectly objective when measured
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in that way but sentiment falls like dust
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on boxes of clothes - you blow, wipe,
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brush, yet the next time you return to them
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a film has settled again, and it's as if
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you'd never made the effort in the first place.
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The neat stacking of cases along these walls
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is too tidy to store grief never completely out of reach.
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Yet under this roof I find shelter - it's this room
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which suffers the most extremes, when the rest of the house
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we have carefully built around ourselves
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keeps stubbornly to its narrow range.
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Up here summer heat is always reluctant to go
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at the end of day. Months pass and winter calls,
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and every storm which batters the tiles overhead
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reminds me that we are all only one layer away
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from a season filled with rain.
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