The Crypt

 

It cried like a child they ran to pick it up.

It was a bone; its silence
crumbs of darkness in a crucible. An ear
warped from their hands, deafening.

They sacked earth for meanings;

built altars in silence: Prague, Rome.
Relics of the bone, damasked, bejewelled,
in little glass cases.

They look like dolls.

 

John Constable

 

 

 

 


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