MURDER
I'd imagine it's over already -
the pinpoint alacrity of manner
and move - with each thing
planned and underway. Now
there's nothing I can do. Like
blood with a poison running
through it, going where it's
coursing. Bound to arrive,
and nothing to be done
either way.
-
All those people are around me
now - ghostly but there - some
parade, some procession voices,
a singsong sound, lilting. But why
am I, presently, so listening to the
past, where all things have
already gone by me?
-
I was gone then, and am so now:
born poor without resources in
some landlocked shadow country
of me. I simply stood, buffeted,
not brave, just buffeted.
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