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Thursday, March 9, 2023

Image

I found the image in the attic,

In the half-light blurred, static,


Like a votive, intensely vatic.

In a shadow box, five white stones


All shaped like finger bones

Arranged in a question mark,


A gesture beckoning a dark

Something beyond conceiving


Into the emptiness of believing.

I took it and nailed it to a wall


Downstairs, only to watch it fall,

Its glass crack, the stones scatter.


I think they no longer matter,

But I’m wrong. I see them still,


Years later. They won’t, and will.

They're like ghosts no ghost can kill.