The Envy of Bones

The dead are hungry.
In small town cemeteries,
village churches, they shift
and creak.

The bones thirst
for the focus of lenses.
They want pilgrims,
earnest students copying
inscriptions into notebooks.

The pressure of Montmartre
and Montparnasse, graves
glowing with attention,
rattles rural crypts.

Fleshless, they can promise
nothing. They stir dust
in catacombs, crumble
in disaffection toward
the bloated graves
of the famous.
They intend to be heard.

Angela France

If you have any comments on this poem,  Angela France would be pleased to hear them.

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