X.
Your bags were packed
and left at the door, the vase you
filled with shells, wrapped in tissue,
your books boxed. I have the whelk
you found on shore, the small conch,
intact—the point, the fine grooves—
and keep it in a box with a picture of you
at the beach: your hair slicked back,
head cocked at an angle.
Behind you, the green jacket
you told me to throw away. Strewn
over a chair, its arms dangle
above the floor—a hole in the pocket,
the elbows thin from years of use.
Blas Falconer
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