Before Closing Time
by Lynn Strongin

 

cooling.
Creep into grief, shot, the soul's core
a theme-park is shutting:
landscape becomes blowing oats, wheat
eerie as a penny whistle
skinny clouds casting dime-shadows.

Your screed
was to pedal above flax land
on good macadam road near Easter.
    There are times Chirist rolls away the stone.

 

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