To RD Caughron

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In the face of your death,
I am helpless to stop the images.
They sooth the pain
and are the pain. 
They keep you alive in me
and me alive in the mountains.

I hover above you,
squint from below.
I sleep and forget
wake and remember
sock the pillow—wham.
Clack clack
goes my tired brain.

I question:
your last position
pondering the land below
arm bracing your chin, they say.  
Why?
And how did you die?
Improper to ask,
impossible not to.
It doesn’t matter.
Yes it does.