The sliver of shaded dirt
where people wait
and waiting remain speaking
through their aching dreams.
In cycles, the moon is cold
on their limbs, their faces;
Not quite the day-night
but still time
moving like a sifting sea coast.
There is only dulled feelings,
opiates in stilled bloodstreams
a canonized set of sweet sense,
the only remnants of living.
No more names under the world
the heaviness of hurtling matter
through forever is constant
and silent-- our shadows slip
in between the earth and our fingernails,
the half-moon scratchings
of children in the dirt.
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