Lazarus Asleep
the rain falls warm, the air is warm
pinched
in the middle days of
winter
the air is faceless in singularity
before the sun is even
spent
the ghosts have eaten all there was
to eat
and the woman says
we shall never go this way
again
the mourners, them veiled in frayed black lace
the old womens' votive weeping
singing spells
at the old and wretched gate
fine carriages have carried them off
the glass in the window crafted eloquent
in the chthonic fall of their
tears
stained, maybe
by the gripping slip of fingers
at the river's weaving
edge
long fingers strong from birth
we shall never go this way again
what is the color
why the grasses grow so wild. ravenous
over what? what is left
whatever the farthest from the blindness of the indesinent night
thought of with such
tremble, temple, and
pine
Copyright © Michael Miers | Year Posted 2015
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