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After everybody has gone to the moon

The breeze will blow the high grass outside my window unheard.

I can see the ragged hole, two inches wide in the golden-orange curtains

Caught on broken glass.

Fragments to fill a hole the size of a falling man,

Scattered about the room with mildew-

Nature raging on, unattended:

Water pipes broken, radiators buckled and red with rust

(Sharp and abrasive if touched)

Underneath the shadow of green trees it’ll be

Just my ghost flung with each swing of the wind.