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Water
(for Carolee and Jill)
all my poems are wet
soaked through with tears
of realization come too late
before the ink is dry
as my pen lifts from the paper
my eyes well up and it starts again
every missed connection
every just-closed train door
every unreturned smile
there are never enough pages
to soak it all up, to absorb all these years
why does it take so long to cross this river?
Remember to rehydrate.
Sound advice, sir, sound advice.