Men in oiled slacks come shuffling
down the mount in droves.
Combed in purple milk the sky
rolls up like bad reception
quaking
clear from gaveled hits. Dead
to hover sun-gray deserts. Hardened
skins that settle in the darker
crease of echoed canyons.
Dusting fields in phantom scrimmage.
Threading creeks up meadow’s twilight.
Wingtips rippling through the surface.
Flocks of dead men stuck in motion.
Lose their balancing in tandem
when the world does its brief wobble.
Lugging weathered duct-taped boxes and
cold paper cups of coffee.
Lobbing
soft regrets between them
like a parlor game undone. While the
whispers of sedans stalk through church
parking lots’ white sun.
If they could be themselves again not
so much nice again but genuine.
The recorded chimes of churchbells sound
and rogue winds die away.
The clouds break in unsalted tears
they did not think could touch them.
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