Up All Night
The branch fingers the window
all night
that small bent sound - in the morning
names are engraved across the surface
Out the cloisters and into the sunlight
there - in the small oldest rooms of Westminster
a glass coffin houses old wax in the shape of a dead prince
The corner calls out
in curling lines
time has etched its graffiti in the form of some
other dead man's initials
That we want to leave something
is not in doubt
the tree
the man
both have seeds to sow to tend to reap
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