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The life engraved on stone
The sculptor has chiseled it away
Shavings of unlived life a pile of stone
Burying each other, safe under the dust
The sandy wind has brought

The sky wonders what’s where the words were


Old blue mountain big.
Trees suck life and bloom red hot.
Poor cottages quiet.

Haloed yellow lamps pulsating away
the soaked night into the darkness
where all moments trickle into

I stand here like at the beginning
of space and time, rolled out straight
and endless,
indistinct, smudged together with the darkness,
my silence merged with the quietude
trapped in the drops of the night’s sound

On hums the steady night its rainy tune.

Something in life lives on death—
Life is what it eats, and what eats not is dead.
I found me dead on the dusty river bed,
damp in a muddy pool of slithery fluids of love
warm in the last moaning movement of love,
slimy, sticky, and fuming like a horse.

I stand watching me watching me,
a god at a loss who to adopt whom.
The broken hands on the clock tower
tick away an eternity between two periods.