| 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.
