I will die in Berkeley, on a day already forgotten,
the only rain of a confused winter.
I will die on a Friday, exhausted of phone calls, the paper
work-- it seems as if I put my
jaw on wrong this morning-- and have forgotten how to use my lips
to cover my teeth. The sky pressures me to cry as to not be alone--
I don't know if it's for me or for it.
Jamie Erickson is dead. The quake has crushed her
at the front desk. A bath tub fell through the ceiling
and black and white stones buried her breath. There were no
witnesses. No one saw anything-- not even the rain.
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