Walking through the bombed-out slum
otherwise, it’s too disheartening.
The imprints of oak leaves
on a gray day’s concrete canvas bring pretend relief,
a fossil footprint sassafras,
a dream museum’s caselode of crinoids,
three hundred million memory-years.
Their silhouetted traces join
the family of the pochoir hand,
of Pompeii’s dog, of Turin’s shroud,
of faded love
– as of the long-gone ghosts pedestrian who took this path
like you. Like yours,
their miracles dissolved the clouds,
dissolve in rain.
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Photo © 2012 by David St.-Lascaux.
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