Where the Bones Lie
by Larry D. Griffin

    Almost everything lasts forever
    (not the tombstone, its letters), but
    graves, mere narrow sinks in level
    ground: places where the bones lie
    beneath or memory of the person,
    the soul unenveloped and free
    in the universe alone. What's light
    dims, but never extinguishes.

    Cold air falls from the ceiling register
    to the floor, heats and rises,
    mixing the air, unseen but felt
    against the body,
    mine, that here breathes.

    Lives come and go; words
    inhabit the page perpetually.
    The words last until the last
    reality, what you may have read
    of them from books, what you may
    heard of them whispered in your ear.







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