Seven

  
July seven was his last day

on this earth. 

Today is 

August seven,

a Sunday
Sometimes 

counted the seventh day 

of the week:

A day of rest. 
I think of his rest:

the last minutes

finally, closing his eyes 

for the last time. 
When we first met,

being apart seven days

was an eternity 
and now eternity 

is all he has

And I have memories

more than 

seventy -times-seven
I have notes written

in his quirky left-handed scrawl. 

I have poems recorded 

in his rich baritone bass

I have his clothing

still evoking his spicy-woody scent
But

I wonder what

what would we say now 

if we had seven
seven minutes:

Maybe words wouldn’t even be needed
An embrace

and a look.
Seven would be Heaven. 

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