a poem by
Greg Braquet
> bio
Return to Sender
The man from the Paper called
about your obituary again.
He asked if I would like to keep the part about your
suicide in. I told him he should not end his sentences in
prepositions. It's the kind of answers I give lately,
somewhat abrupt and not really answering the question,
like the short
note you left... "Forgive me."
