Poem 17

on reflecting on urns
I would not be so pretentious to think
That I could write on urns
But I was there and I saw
Men and women, robed, running
Folding fabric fluttering without wind
Pressed my nose on the glass and
Exhaled on history
Aging before me
Ran my fingers across the mosaic
In the hall.
Someone’s beautiful imagination
Birthed the black between the figures.
Someone stood them up and froze the frame.
I would not pretend to write about them.
Go there. Words are not the same.

Poem 17 EditedPoem 17 Revised

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