Junot Diaz, in one of his works, describes a father as a hard thing to compass

and so is death.

are we walking towards death

is death coming at us

are we dying a little every day


i sit in the woods

the white chair out of place in the woods


yet in place. At home.

you sat here ages ago

i don’t know you, didn’t know you

now i think of you

the dreams you must have dreamt here

the laughter, the tears, the silences

what books communed with you here

a reader knows a reader


Banana Yoshimoto sits by me

Mayu has died.

The young die unfinished

Mayu was young and finished


How we labour for things and people

mostly things.

yet when we think we have gained purchase

death sneaks in. Takes us.

If we are lucky we are old and formed

just like you.

If we are not, and we will be unlucky, we are young and unfinished

just like Mayu.


we have done all this to die

we have done nothing of this to die


were you happy?

your white chair tells me you are.


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