The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

unrhymed, the grave goes under, no word like
any other, our talk drowned earth and granite
out, swallowed every creature whole, in parts
against ridge, torn verbs, supplications,
pleadings, cries in loam, darted shadows, o
gods who foretold death, bowed to bone, one;
silence listened, quiescent, as if already
lost, churned, wounded, hurried, hung

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