Every death, I read, has its echo.
The nighty ground is warm.
A car door slams the end of talk.
Twelve mothers in a circle, children
Drift like light through their arms.
Technicians bent over wiry tabernacles
Decipher from the glow answers
Where we find only a low insistent hum.
The food parcel that ‘arrived’ is not
here.
Our visitor falls out of his narrow bed.
Every death joins hands with the past.
Children bang around inside a shed
Happy to be amplified across the grass.
Doors are locked, windows glow.
Every death is a leap, we know.
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