Saturday, June 13, 2015


It’s late.  The birds have tucked away
Their worms.  The spiders fold their silk.
Monuments tell stone dogs to stay.
The galaxy pours out its milk.
And you, you lie there just as still
As prayer.  On the other hand,
No ring.  The stars, though falling, will
Not change our course, nor ever land;
But day will break, and, broken, leave
Us petrified.  And first the lark
And then the sparrows will receive
A vacant and a timeless park.

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