When bells have stilledand the dead tongues of stone
sit named and etched with dates:
an apple gets cored by ants.
When the sun dances
on old headstones, a noose
unravels: disarmed - the rope
comes free from its branch.
Our national time passes slow.
2 comments:
you have a new fan.
-jb
I think I like your writing. Better to think, though. Liking would require a soul or at least bread pudding.
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