Everyone lives, but for him
azure skirts of a remembered Mary
enfold gray mountains
like a robe the sorrowing son.
Mother of Heaven, here sits a stranger.
His pronouns deflect attentions.
A kid misses school; an unseen
person has let out the dogs.
The bus goes; curious children
crane necks to see who calls.
Rooftops float in a well of silence.
The sky cuts doors from walls.
During composition, the poet thinks
less than others to manage affairs.

Donald Wellman | Mudlark No. 34
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