Tuesday, October 19, 2021

By Addition

Each day tucks in next
The previous one, bird
Landing on a wire, mark
On a page, the gathering.

Look at them all, one
After another, in bed
Like orphans, babies
In a maternity ward,

Old-fashioned maternity
Ward, where you look
At the cribs in tidy rows,
While no one comes

For these ones, they never
Grow except in number,
Each next stone wedged
In its cemetery lawn.

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