You drag your old apartment through abandonment
imagining the surplus of activities segmenting the days
reaching back to capture the elements of then
fragmented into painful shards.
The players at the foot of your bed await direction
again overwhelmed by the onlookers
brought in to witness your de-accessioning.
The wood stove crackles with befuddlement.
It has been cued, as have others, from childhood memories.
This has happened as predicted
choreographed by backers as a concession
to the chamber group whose notes have taken to the air.
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| The Grateful Dead |