RESTING PLACE

The sun slants on

a broken pot leaning out over the water

The wet rails glint and the graves

Rill with dirt


ancestors' crowded homes


Touch these stones

Feel over the braille of the dead

The ghost of warmth in the ground


Watch the moon making home

A dog digging


He mourns


I will rest here, before the

Thick earth builds on my boots,

In my mouth

Robert James Berry

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