when he comes down from the mountain
he cannot wring the darkness
from his body twenty years gone and now
a kaleidoscope of shadows
fluttering through the silent house
a cello string keens
in the basement of his days
friends arrive with faces like outdated maps
he is often lost
stumbling through the trees
of growing darkness
his breath curls
into the howl of wolves
he never meant to vanish
from his own life
never meant to be a stone
cutting the skin of the river
in the evenings he studies the family photos
the house fills with a frantic beating of wings
when he goes to the cemetery
to speak with his dead wife
the words are moths
that clot his throat
he leaves a stone for her
so she will know he came
it is a long way back
he wonders if he will ever make it home
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