All things counter, original, spare and strange in Khujand, Tajikistan


This patterned absence: shadow leaves on snow,

a strain of music on the wind, a wisp

of scent you lose in passing. Subtle gifts

are given in his place, and somehow known

as traces, tracks left by some animal,

who, great as men are great, would naturally

impress himself on his surroundings, I

reason, not willing to admit that all

the tears aside a door will be a door

without his heavy knock, a book will be

a book without his voice.  The way I see

him missed in his apartment’s dusty floor

persists, as dust persists, but then again

did not the dust itself once pass—to man?


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