and bonnet, sitting in her only chair
in her attic room in her
allotted repose, embroidering a system
into a sheet, unravelling, going over
again the riddled cloth. I found your
sheaves and sheaves of notes,
your illness, your ontology, your art.
I am everyone coming after, running my fingers
over your spidery lines, forgetting
the rustle made by your dress
as you sat down in your chair.
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