drops from upper air, like rain, clinging brightly to the fresh-cut hair of children and the infantry: all hail the clicking heel, all will regale the shrinking light with grains of wedding rice, of salt, of sands as fit a last brassy parade: the marching band will soften with its growing-distant drum, the oscillating hand will stop its waving soon enough, soon enough; here now, the motorcade hums gaily through the citizens’ applause and the children’s eyes bronze faintly with the glint of far-off fireworks, or firebombs, or falling evening stars. Copyright © 2014 by Malachi Black. Used with permission of the author. |
0 comments:
Post a Comment