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.  
And how did you die?
Improper to ask,
impossible not to.
It doesn’t matter.
Yes it does.