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6 мая 2013 г., 11:13
Late afternoon Friday
my last sight of you alive
burning your letter to me
in the ashtray
with that strange smile…
And I had started to write when the telephone
Jerked awake, in a jabbering alarm,
Remembering everything. It recovered in my hand.
Then a voice like a selected weapon
Or a measured injection,
Coolly delivered its four words
Deep into my ear: Your wife is dead.
