“Graveyard Grip” by Bernie DeVille

All that trousseau we’ve managed to lose,
we the apes of dead trees, false accreted rocks,
glazed sand and fast metal.
We were shown the book of dustless past,
and protruding into the present it bothers us.
A phantom limb,
a twitching stump, muscle memory with no gristle
or bone purchase for action.
Running over us and behind,
the grip of history looses,
freeing the teeth for the jackals feast.

-Bernie DeVille

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