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.
Words with music 
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