by David Lee Garrison


When people he hasn’t seen
for a while ask after his wife,
he lies

to avoid talking
about the separation.
He turns away,

turns inward to the self
he meets each night
in that dark hallway

of a thousand turns
toward sleep.

in his mind he goes back
and revises the past
like a manuscript

or turns it over and over
like an envelope,
hoping the letter inside

will turn out to be
some undiscovered
tropical flower.

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