The winter sun, golden and tired,
settles on the irregular army
Outside the trucks
jostle toward the open road,
outside it's Saturday afternoon,
and young women in black pass by
arm in arm.
is the house of silence, and we drink
to silence without raising our voices
in the old way.
We drink to doors
that don't open, to the four walls
that dose their eyes, hands that run,
fingers that count change, toes
that add up to ten.
as we are between our business
and our rest, we feel the sudden peace
of wine and the agony of stale bread.
Columbus sailed from here 30 years ago
and never wrote home.
like this the phone still rings for him.
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