The Wretched Of The Earth

The wretched of the earth bow down
Turning water into a cracked lyre—
No string picks up the sound,
No wind remembers to blow over it

In a corner, a gull takes off,
Leaving the gentle grass widowed behind
In its taxiing it breaks a wing,
And slowly paddles its flagellatory feet against the wind

You do not believe me,
Say it sounds like the ground beneath our feet—
Shaky in its movement, fractured in its bones.
I am quiet, and think what it must take
To make truth sound like something you would finally embrace.

I begin the story again, this time distractedly
changing the moment that sits between
the take off and the fall,
the green and the dirty,
the sky and the devastation

Maybe the wing did not break,
Maybe the feet did not struggle to find a softer landing

The gull takes off,
passes carelessly through the sky,
spending its mornings against marbled floors,
where visitors will come and go

The wretched of the earth have fled we hear,
peacefully with the gulls.

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