how the air

grows thin            like silk:


today there is no history

     behind crushed lungs:


i have made poetry

out of my body


     without regard to my mouth:

     (an indentation: crude. unprocessed.)


today there is no one left

     to mourn the skin i have shed


the hours ripen

and carve fifty sons


     out of unwrought concrete:

     (a memorial: cemented. callous.)


today there is no poetry

     behind white bone


only the dull finish

to the soft cadence

of our misgivings



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