Methods At C'ana

Down that road they hate
to bother the birds
and the moths take care
of themselves. Memories
of bread and passers-by,
days of nothing, basic
meals and rudimentary troubles.
Limp cloths for dusty wings
over whole dead armies
ash pretty and weary,
cookware and clothing
caught in the betrayal
of buildings, the unbrushed
hair of those mornings!
In the rubble, such
a sweet place to remember
one has been, such grace and surrender.

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