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Bob Donachie

The Wanderer

for Rob

You are never gone long,

In the morning they’ll

Look and speculate

On which direction you


Have fallen, the ways

Your feet take you

When the moon is ripe.

It could be you were


Entranced by the lack

Of promise in days,

The immutable principle

Of death by purpose,


And they may yet be

Calling you; But you

Continue as before,

Even the bones of


Your feet uncertain,

Hearing, yes, but

Not words, or emotion—

Rather the instances


In which these sounds

Are grounds for departure.

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