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poem from The Lost Brigade
by Bruce Guernsey


The endless movement of stones,
how they work their way up,
surface each spring in the garden
as if out of breath.

How others will sink,
slowly, over the years, unnoticed,
like a man at peace
slipping off to sleep, or dying.

History happens under our feet,
the tunneling of worms,
the loosening of earth
letting breathe

what’s underneath —
the cold foreheads crowning like birth,
our footsteps each year
heavier, deeper.

image by Victoria Woollen-Danner

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