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Papillon, NE

Your sister was dying

the summer we met, and dead

the next. You insisted

we pronounce your hometown

the right way, rhymes

with pavilion. It made me think

of one giant, golden wheatfield

from border to border. No room

for French or paved roads.

You said, She's got a corner

suite in Heaven, sure even

of the floor plan of that beyond.

Quietly, I wasn't even certain

Nebraska was somewhere real.