Fall 1993 • Vol. XV No. 4 PoetryOctober 1, 1993 |


Wherever we walk, we walk over the silent. Cities layer on layer, we know, or never heard of; whose citizens gave themselves in sleep to dreams not understood, saw how far the stars were and how the moon shrank and went. Dust to dust, they coupled, joined dust they found precious; lit fires for cold and dark, lost what they could not keep. Walk softly over the dust of their cities deep below, over the places which were dear to them, or bitter. Under the pasture, the forest, the ugly street, the museum that houses their artifacts, in respect of their fraternity. Over its number we few move.

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