Genur.art

silent night the ancient busses trudging their dusty Sanskrit all at once the story of the last dinner we shared the baby and the rest of the growing things that never grew again silent incandescent light I remember you were thick with flies on the porch while some faces played their banjos and collected arthritis the baby gone off in the fields of all the growing things that never grew again silent wonderful star filled night while some faces fade with the ball of rock growing dryer fuzz there in the abandoned hills, the name of which is lost in scaffolding there is the little girl grown up and on her way silent face of night the ancient busses trudging their dusty Sanskrit can't even begin to disturb the momentary stillness that gathers you like fog I grasp at as a falling stone trying not to ripple the water