the echoing shore

Then there will be a sound,
the thunder across the water,
the cracking of the ice,
the cackle of the clairvoyant -
the whistle in a dark alley

And the sudden stop
of ticking clocks

Bunin’s rage
at marital order,
Nin’s heat
along a geographic border -

But, where does it begin?

Whose voice is that, calling
out along the river?
What footsteps drag and dredge,
quiver and disorder
ordered stones and careful plantings -
whose?

What call, echoing
as the sun sets and shadows fall,
what stranger walking toward us?

Whose sound is that,
tearing at their garments -
clay feet and scribbled soul,
a note in darkened hole,
priest-bound creature of relentless striding.

There will be a sound, thunder in the snow,
the moans of burning souls,
ashy figures bending,
a moment buried, and moments mocked.

There will be a sound -
then silence.

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