A Grim Depletion, 1819

Chad Norman

Mary rolling in the sand;
a small sealed box in grass by the beach

How our planet withstands the many lives
roiling the lithe hopes of restoration
and overcoming the conquests for comfort
hardly gets beyond the hot stretching drop
of a memory, I ready for, like any desert
under the anxious widening shadow of a meteor.

I once was such a planet. Before the exile
and confinements, before death sat refreshed
upon a collection of empty notched cradles
set in a circle around my still imagination,
my inability to seek, a slack limited thought
finally lifting my chin from my chest.
I resembled a slow rotation. A partial orbit.

All the children were dead. Our brave shunned circle
spun back to three, like the day we left
the deft tongues of London, the minds of parents
stricken with the ills of debts and domination.

Our bright hated triad stuck away stock moments,
clearly shedding the disbelief we quietly carried
throughout Italy until our eyes had to speak,
so the moral hour they met hardened in the mind
trying me alone for errors I allowed to erect
the blasted cell of a love our lives began to pace.


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