Unable now to measure those dead,

I make of them something more.

Others scratch their intersections

where ghost becomes graph, plotting memories

against the ex- of expectation,

the why of desire.

But I’ve lost their value.

They’re hypotheses now to me.

All this while chrysanthemums

push their stink across the room

from the clouded vase.

Equated but not sated,

my brother and my father fill the room.

No need to carry forward

their remainder.

     Merely,

fresh water in the vase.

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