Road

Hill studded with tombstones
all roads circle back to
as we run. “We are only mouth,”
one says, “Personal pronoun
trapped in the mind,” another answers.
We hear them calling
each to each as the road circles
back again, names waving
like flags in the crisp
morning air. We become
gesture and glance, rhetoric
rattling in bones, blood
ebbing and flowing till
tide breaks

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