Mark Terry, “Faith of our Fathers,” 72 x 14 x 8, mixed media
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To warm this grave its wick
is lit the way a small stone
ignites the Earth with footsteps
brought here to become the glow
dirt breathes in, half harvest
half let go and though the night sky
no longer makes room
it still thickens –you gather
as if all stones are emptied
for their canary-in-the-mine wind
darkness alone can calm, turn back
and your arm at last on its side
folded over the other :ice
headed for winter, filled
without a past, without faces.
________________
Simon Perchik