With sixty miles of wind at work,
Each end a scabbard sharp, unsheathed.
Hello strand whose name I know,
You've blocked leftover graves
Keeping them at bay,
Simultaneously calling me closer.
He hasn't spoke in four years time,
That old cricket-
The one I've known for years-
Crawled out of his unmarked grave
And into my passenger side glass,
Singing while a stranger's lights
Fly closer,
Over stains of people who were,
Ominously bright.
I am no deer.
I open up,
Harmonizing with a monster I never met,
Not till this night.
It's beauty takes my breath,
Sound, blue black,
Floats away behind her.
Edith wraps round my head,
Working her way inside
Through visions on my skin,
Stealing my expected solitude
Not knowing why she came,
While a silver slab sits idly by.
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