Walk past, they are buried . . . A cloud glides over the sun's disk.
Starvation is a tall building that moves about by night –
in the bedroom an elevator shaft opens, a dark rod pointing toward the interior.
Flowers in the ditch. Fanfare and silence. Walk past, they are buried . . .
The table silver survives in giant shoals down deep where the Atlantic is black.
Made with FlippingBook