Silence of the children-thought
as blown on carriage train to nought,
with buckets from the mind-well slowly
brought to stretch the light of dusk where
shadows pierce a heart of sorts
and salt marks out the eyes.
Smite not now the over-pass,
where thundered air can breathe at last,
where distance flies us close enough for
bruised lips to return to laugh
and delight is compromise.
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