The eulogy ran on, becoming
More improbable but not
More interesting. The man's vices,
Locked away in crates, had started
Chanting rhythmically. By ones
And twos our shadows slipped away.
Finding them was hard; there were fights
Over whose each one was.
My father's friend Peter H. went home
With one that belonged to a tree;
Beech perhaps or some species of birch.
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