liar's art
1.  Our Bones

Our bones are bleached before the day we’re born.
Our gospel’s gathered in the dust that lies
on paths a thousand hurried pasts have worn
through silent valleys where no rivers rise.
Our spirits stir like wind in dimming light
and loose themselves from frail and languid forms,
and we, without the strength to stay the flight
are caught surprised and swallowed by the storms.
But voice will vibrate the metal of pins
this moment revolves on, connecting ear
to vein, breath to vivid, truth to skin.
It animates the air. It buoys up years.
When voices carry, quickening the earth,
chaotic soil will yield all death to birth.
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