Over
in the church yard
the block of white marble
has sat as long as I can remember
Small pecks at it
what could be the start of a leg
Birds sit on it
And it grows green with moss
I saw them tilting it upright this morning
Men in rough cloth inspecting it for cracks
Then he ran his blackened hands
across the surfaces
held his ear to it
He pressed his face against the stone
and breathed deeply for what seemed hours
The stillness of the out of season cold spell
His breathing
I expected something to form from the air
to braid itself from the earth
and his dark eyes
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