as I walked I saw the world as a constellation of all its graveyards like the one this winter

        and the bodies which like snowflakes settled here one by one over the long night

    one trusts - for corpses' drift is subterranean, unverifiable, like the provenance of a eucrite or a lunar sample in one's collection, of a holy relic -

        fallen from how high, if we can believe it, if it is true -

                as far beneath true moonlight as the color of bone
 
 












shmoetry
 

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