Tuesday, January 17, 2012

"The hushing lawns."

The book of our bones can be read
In the thinnest of moonlight.

Its grass is black and dampened, and

Printed in bold letters even a child could read.

But there are no children here today.

Over time the crease of the spine
No longer creates a sound.

Shhh, it all says. The words are quietly singing.

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