the monuments
the monuments
who will clean them
when we are all gone
whose hands will brass
the shiny dog’s nose
the ear or the brow
the patina will grow
on
the monuments
who will remember
that the memories are gone
that there is no one to know
that there is no one no more
un-patted the patina will grow
and will grow
on
the monuments
toppling one after one
as the subsidence of existence
the sink hole we know
that there will be no one
to peer into the hole
for the whole of existence
is gone and we don’t know that
on
the monuments
no bird shit is sitting now
on the angels the patina
of lichen does grow
but the songs of the birds
was cooked up long ago
and no one
no one does know
on
the monuments
not one inscription is new
for the hand with the chisel
is no longer sinew
but bones that are pointing
and that is the point
that no one
no one
will ever know
now
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