In our days we will live like our ghosts will live, pitching glass at the cornfield crows and folding clothes. Like stubborn boys across the road we'll keep everything: Grandma's gun and the black bear claw that took her dog. And when Sister Lowrey says "amen", we won't hear anything. The ten-car trains will take that word, that fledgling bird. And the fallen house across the way, it'll keep everything: the baby's breath, our bravery wasted, and our shame.
And we'll undress beside the ashes of the fire, both our tender bellies wound in bailing wire, all the more a pair of underwater pearls than the oak tree and its resurrection fern.
- Sam Beam
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