At the Place Where In the farmhouse, in the meadow, in the field of stones, the voices remain, regardless. Did he hold his hands just so when he spoke of how far he had come? Did she lean into the conversation, bent by sorrow? And the boy, was he always watching as the girls turned their heads? Who heard the wisp of his voice as he lowered his eyes? When it happens with gunfire or the steel shiver of the blade, with sticks, with rocks, with kicks, syllables shatter, unanchor from language. Listen: there is chatter in the trees. 9/9/10
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