by Daniel A. Nicholls. Poetry, art, and related problems.
friday was good
the bottom of the well the top of the water the sky the sky as signified the looking in the flowing through the bucket down the welling up the drawing up the dry— and should the child plunging in pull apart the parents’ cry from every bond of lung— the townsmen’s hands the tiny flailing limbs the short commands the sputter the stone from stone from stone below the wailing forth the shovels and picks and grandad’s voice the wet echo whimper the dusk mounting to see the grime-slick slip the rope gone slack the water sleep the night spent at an open grave the moon giving no comfort the screams of father down empty earth the mute upgaze of mother the filling in and sealing up the few words of a bridled priest the moving to another town the adoption of nothing new with breath the rye instead of water the little spirit in packed dirt-down and all this goddamn silence.
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