Pilate
Alabaster and faded burgundy
Wine-tinged lips
Whisper to me from three days ago
Call between six and nine
Death got in my way: goodnight
Crash wrenches away the steering wheel, his shoulders separate
Flashes of his outstretched hands, car rolling
Walking down Olive I search for him
Find only shattered stained glass and bits of metal
Grope the ground for a figment, something
I should have held onto
Following the hearse I hear his voice
Don’t carry on like this
Both my hands collide
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