One Shot Poems are below this one
Unmoved and unmoving dust
graced with thoughts of rising
—believes its bones may breathe
—more than flute song
—trilling through an empty marrow case,
surrenders to its remaking.
It writes litany of errant past
—upon unwinding linen shroud.
Finding voice, it speaks these deeds aloud.
It hopes a future free,
prays the heart be shriven clean.
Moving forth, it gathers names
—of those clambered over to reach its grave,
compelled to find each wronged and salve the wound,
—kiss the scar.
It keeps words handy, the balm ever near.
Emptied of all but praise and hope
it finds and succors the rising dead.
It, made human once again.