Requiem for Long-ago Acquaintance

The wind resembles cymbals made of cheese,
its music mute, or, if heard, absurd.
Perhaps it’s simply gone, but if so where?
Can absence ipso facto describe wind?
And you, where are you? People say you’ve died.
Where were you all those years they say you lived?
Perhaps we each were cymbals stored apart,
our music moot as that of those of cheese.

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