Seersucker Suit - Deborah Digges
Through the racks and the riggings, belt buckles ringing and coins in coat pockets and moths that fly up from the black woolen remnants, his smell like a kiss blown through hallways of cedar, the shape of him locked in his burial clothes, his voice tucked deep in his name, his keys and the bells to his heart, I am passing his light blue seersucker suit with one grass-stained knee, and a white shirt, clean boxers, clean socks, a handkerchief.
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