You are on your own
Bones fall from her sack
You build
Nothing upon nothing
Flames are hatched
She grinds pepper
Better devices will be sought
Feather to thigh
Hot butter will blind
The hidden eye
Take the poems out
The fallen body
Up on poles
Make them dry
Banners flap at history
Poems squeak against us
Language on lips
Fabricates into bronze tears, wrinkled
Memory in a frieze.
Stephen Vincent
from the "Trellis" series
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