On the way out, I gripped his arm, squeezed, let go.

He was talking to another black suit

—we were all black suits for the funeral—

and his bicep shifted in my grip,

lax. (Had he been ill?) We smiled, nodded.

That was all, and, for old friends,

sufficient. Outside the inn, peonies, those

great nodding heads, unstable bobbers, climbed

the wall and spilt onto the roof, storming the inn.



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