the grimes
becomes their life
those times when
a pinafore wife
on the door step
of the works hooter
the smoke wept
as the child turns on a corner scooter
in the merging of home and works
of life and deaths
where tillage lurks
in a cinder field of wreaths
and a belief that nothing changes
and so nothing ever will
reincarnation is a sintered slag
when everything is in the bag
there is nothing to spill
in these graveyard times
even the black lichen lies
born x died y
never asking
why
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