Pain settles over fissureslike a house,settling over the shiftof the moon, and theloose ends of lives aretied too tight to Hitler’s boots,creaking.And tied to the leg of a birdare some wordsthat escape reason andreturn with nothingas days fly by.Nothing is doneabout the cracks in theceiling when thepain settles; nothing is doneexcept a finished moonand the polished boots,creaks andcracks,and lives thatare settledon the truth.S.G.03-07-09
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