After Leaving the Funeral of My Friend’s Father, I Don’t Know How to Deal With the Sound of Us Crying

On the drive from the chapel to the burial ground we stare out each window like owls. We blast Hallelujah & Purple Rain, shout the lyrics so loud we force ourselves to cry. Most my friends are not poets, so I don’t say how what we’re doing amounts to a kind of elegy, the way Julian drove a hundred miles to be the thirteenth car in the procession, how when Michael died those years ago we met in the dark in Central Park to run loops & loops to cope. There’s nothing else to do but keep close. I...

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