Burial

Poetry

 

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In the low tight soil

cramping out breath

sun watertight

stones as they landed

time ago

another tree grows.

 

The plane

so rampant

no doubt pressed against this clay

another leap to live

how it goes on

even when it’s over.

 

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Washing in winter

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And sometimes РI will tell you РI sat and waited for the washing to dry

in the last slit of sunlight

before the cold comes cramping down

birds go mad with last calls

the neighborhood is magnified

(a child sings and slams a door and the song stops sudden:

not so the dogs who take the opportunity

to stretch their voices out to moonrise)

and the frost whores all over everything –

leaving thrills of ice like algal bloom on the sheets, on the hedges and fences and flowers

and on the shoes left on our window sill.

All our love, my dear and small footprints in your own morning.

May the birds call out your name and all your dogs come home.