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By Douglas Terry

My grandfather is gone
The last time I saw him
Alzheimer’s had whittled his
Brain and body down to
A thin transparent flake
Of a man
His cheeks bones protruded
Under his chalk-white

Only his vast and familiar hands
Had life
And they anchored him to the railing
Of his hospital bed as if
At any moment,
Death might rage in a tidal fury
Through the walls of his floral
Patterned room
Drowning him

When it did it was
not in a rage or torrent
or whirlpool
just quietly
like a bath tub filling with water
silently seeping over the edge
and flowing
gently on the

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Document last modified on: 08/19/2002

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