The Crying Earth

It is as if
today
it happened:

the ancients
piled and split,
already rotting,

twigs of replacement
posing with covering shovels
and believing dignity.

I have no connection to
the crying earth.

Seventy years of fragrant
soil has been
fastened into stone
above it,

so solid,
some no longer
believe who it covers.

Yet, more than pity —
the shards of
belief fractured
by time —

this is memory:

the bruising fruit of
borrowed eyes,

the legacy of
the witness.

(for Primo Levi)

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