Two Poems

One last insult

Bleached stones,
spotty grass,
rusted gates,
water-marked walls:

 

here weeds, not flowers,
mark memories;

 

and exhaust
throws incense
over the dead.

Communion: failure

Forlorn,
the clerks stare
down long, unbusy aisles.

 

The feast is gathered
but the customers are gone,
slid back to ancient orbits

 

 

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