I've been out here on this undefined
ledge
for a long time, I have no idea
why.
The world was made with lightning
and fog, in bursts
of illumination, in echoes of
thunder, reverberating
in the darkness. I turn the TV on.
A doll in a powder blue tuxedo and
top hat
dances across the screen.
He knows all the latest moves from
a century ago.
I could almost read a book by that light
but I left my reading glasses behind
(or maybe
they just fell off my head while I
was sleeping).
Beyond the horizon are undulating hills.
A gravedigger could get lost in that
terrain,
among the hip bones and clavicles of
the dead.
One day those stumps will grow wings,
unfolding, transfigured, rising,
luminous as the stars.
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