To Dust Will Return

When sky speaks of nearby heaven,

and the ground of human hands,

between them rests the freshest angel.

Tomorrow he has silver dollars woven through his course, unkempt mane

A lick of copper will slip across his broad hide, brushed it seems

in oil on a June’s canvas.

She was onfronted by two mirrored marbles, each a small image of herself

surrounded by an immense black ocean,

a chamber for soul.

Slight blades of tendon began to fold and fall, and free grasses

bend to the slight wind, so the muscles pull and lift and

dance in unison to become a flattened field.

Young and beautiful is the kernal underneath his stormy lids,

and

Like a fantasy spirit, he slides through the silky wheat

and across the open acres of heaven.

And dust coated arms, legs, filled op clothing, clotted hair and

spoke

a still word with God.

This poem is about: 
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