Linda Price

Song of Soldiers

God loafs with jackhammers, they whisper,
to souls who smoke in sleepy caves;
where skulls, bones and joints surrender
and own nothing, only the days.

Little sun, small grain, feather in the blue,
like a torch, tense as needle threading;
unloosens trees, haphazard hilly hue,
and leaves no trace of ever belonging.

We are granules on endless journeys,
walking wherever, where everything speaks.
We sniff and sigh over rivers run gently
and watch wavy reflection and muddy leak.

What language, what rhythm, of the world;
shines through our scaffolding, now grown cold.

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