What the Angel of History Said

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Photograph by Cynthia Brogan

A mortal home, now ruin, lays head down.
It rests on incomplete graciousness
etched into webbed words of cement stone.
The virtue of the cemetery pawn moves
in the river of cohesive melancholy—
quickly, though slowly, and also not at all.
How wonderful to preserve oneself
through time’s poetic death
with the fragmented signs that remain.
Left now to ponder if it ever was;
spending an eternity in stony places
where there is rock and said to be no water.
‘Death, my child’ is what I heard whispered.

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