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Marigolds, Oaxacan flowers
grown to guide the dead,
leave so many memories at my door.
Milk bottles placed on the concrete step:
every morning, sparrows peck holes
in the silver tops to drink the cream.
its once open door
now slowly closes.
Keys no longer turn in the lock.
Sleep gathers in forgotten rooms,
falling like dust on silken flowers.
Shadows double themselves in the mirror:
recycled shades carve the shower’s glass.
Wary of shade and flame I bathe beneath
a dust-laden beam of sunlight.
Motes in my mind:
flesh and blood chessmen
playing their game
on checkered boards of day and night.