sort of heaven:
- humans don't so much shatter
as come apart.
- "they don't love their children."
- daughters, now, receiving
the send off, not coming home in
boxes, not enough to be
found,
- sentries. walkers that go
any where, watchers that
suspend in black a motif of eyes.
within the shroud, a shroud. an eye.
within the shroud a ticking heat.
(You assemble a percussive beat, which
is not the heart's beat, but rushes in
the blood all the same)
1 comment:
I forgot how much I love this blog. Just revisiting our old poetry today since I have time for the first time in months... Love this poem by the way. My favorite is the "sentries" line, as well as the last: "You assemble a percussive beat.." I miss you! I need to keep in contact with you more often. Can´t believe you´re off to India in a week! <3
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