“under the form of eternity”

he was, and now his absence is,
most real. the edges of my eyes
keep thinking that they see him, but
he’s gone where individuals must go —
and all of this means nothing, really, now.

he liked spinoza. once, he said he read
the ethics on vacation in his youth;
he loved the spare geometry of truth
and kindness, there. but now his seat lies bare
as waves indifferently resume their stroll

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