I found in a letter from my mother that not much had changed. But there was something there, something she said twice - "Elgin Miller died from poisoned lemonade." "Elgin Miller is dead."

Memories of Elgin Miller drifted by. My father's voice at the window - "Elgin. Driving by."

I remember the way it can be there - the rigid days and the rubber nights.

I can picture the wake so soft-lit, the corpse's face aglow.
In the light from his remains to his remainders - maybe he is there, not so heavy or readily defined

I wonder if anyone is frightened by the thought of Elgin Miller in the mystery of the other side.

Some wonder if he's formless - can he read their minds?
Some may wish him in hell

The mystery of my mother's repetitions, the lines between the lines - were they peaks above the sea or were they peeks at the way the hours push the corpse of everyone, of everyday, of every goddamn thing?

The mystery of Elgin Miller - was it suicide? If it's so, I wouldn't be surprised.
August's breath, moist and heavy, aging frame
Lemonade - now that sounds fine
For a little while