He had moved his mother's wedding dress
time after time, from apartment to
apartment, city to city
Friend to friend, lover to lover
Until we found him hanging
A white apparition in a candlelit room
Acrid myrrh failing to mask the death-stench of shit
"A fruit on a loop," the cop called him
[Note: Inspired by an anecdote CA Conrad told on the Poetry Foundation's "Off the Shelf" podcast.]
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