makeshift

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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