OK then – what shall we give the children who
come calling?
Should anyone, then, receive their just
deserts?
Then is it just your family or your fantasy
you write about?
Where in this are we all together then?
Can we really say it is okay to build upon
this shattered ground?
How can we raise up a feast yet call this cooking
simple?
Can any of this actually be done without lies?
When will the children arrive?
Is this voyage in daylight? – surely in ever
deepening drabness?
Where in this can you find any human joy that
may be true?
Why do you shift your attention to the grass,
of all things?
Is it in fact familiar?
&
then who to?
When the children have gone, how do you
measure this silence?
When you hear in this some kind of call –
what?
When will you go down to join our common
occupation?
When, okay, will the common wound then
begin
too to heal?
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