(grosmont Castle: The Great Chimney)

The dead are not like us. Suspended
in the midday still, they miss
satiety and thirst. They wane,
yet stay. Their eyes are set aside,
their hands do not caress, eager
or fearful, the stony mossy stuff.
They carry extinguished lamps,
threadbare raincoats, broken shields.
We hug and all lights up, broom as far as one can see,
a settled present moment. We feel
each grass blade's breath
pressed against another blade
or by itself:
it catches up to us and pierces through,
then slowly turns back into wood
that which was sawdust scattered in the air.

by Carlos Barbarito

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