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I have a feeling that six months from now I will decide that I don't like this one. Too much fixation with the shape, subject matter kind of bleah, but maybe, in the unknown future, I can condense it down to a Tee-shirt design or something.

The cruellest man
sells monuments,
black granet set
with angels, or
two praying hands,
marble slabs, with
shining faces
waiting for their
names, their dates, for
a loved one's last
vital facts--born
on this date, and
in this year, died
some other year,
perhaps this one,
this very year,
this very month,
the blank stones say,
"loving father,"
"loving mother."
The stone slabs hold
their earthen breath,
waiting for the
chisel and bit
to give them life,
to let them speak
to say in plain
stone letters what
the treasured dead
can say no more--
death gives them life.

The cruellest man
carves silent stone,
the granite's voice
first sounding in
the drill's shrill scream,
the steel note
that gave it birth
remembered in
each soft goodbye.

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