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IV. Charging Shadow
Circa 1964
Always this dream, the
immortal flick of wind,
the dark sediment caking
our mouths. Always this
feeling of time sitting flat
like crust turning soft in
our brains – the earth
wet with a dour embrace.
Wandering footfall tears
through the union of fo-
liage and sun, a breath of
earth and stone thicken-
ing with an inquisitive
charge. How do the dead
defend themselves, cross-
armed, hollow-breasted,
muscle undone by the
wet-rotting song of time.
For years we lay lost,
hugged tight by mounds
of ungoverned earth,
squat nameless blocks
knotted above our heads
till the shovel’s eye sunk
its blade and tipped and
rose with pure betrayal.