We lay far away,
daring left of a perimeter
so distant, a sinister din
would barely rub past –
the circus of human sounds
scorch only the compass.
Could, or would I peer in –
lids of petal creased
in leaf accordion – to observe upon
the absent dance of distance;
your smoke signals casting
those sad alarms, would unhinge.
Let each ghastly disaster slide
in a shedding of the Eucharist and
the supernal scales –
you don’t need a form out here,
we are garden; a wise vegetation
will animate us.
Now here we are,
I missed this morgue of pre-dawn
with its cliché stillness,
the lull of life is the cemetery inertia
that suffers in the moments
between death and resurrection… .
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