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To a Boy Who Was, on the Occasion of His Being

I look for you in St. Alban’s square,
on Sundays,
where you were
but never are.

I see a ghost
who resembles you,
but his open eyes
cannot see
and the sounds in his ears
deafen me.

Helpless, I watch,
lost in memories
of you in St. Alban’s square
on Sundays.

--Linda C., Adult