These dead people

These dead people with their
dead faces and
dead names, all join with lines
but they blur before me
and I can't 
bear the mountain weight
on my cracking shoulders -
my hands hurt too much from
the boulder-work, from all the
talking to the sky and the
stars and the trees, berating
the wind, as if they'd all have
answers to the riddle of what is
and I could have ease - a thing
I remember from the year 1982
before the beam broke
and the House fell down.  We were
never the same after that, just
fallout:  rubble strewn far and
wide, ungathered.  I can't
draw the lines now, tell the names,
join-up the puzzle dots to make
a good picture.  I'm not good
enough, my bones are strained
and all the words I need to hear
all the speech I need to make
is snatched away like my
breath is stolen.  I can't look
at all the dead faces today
and stay upright.  I can't draw
the lines because it makes me ill.

The one I want is down the hill
buried in grass and all the
useless heart can do is tell the time -
how late it has become
and how far the miles tattooed
on the soles of my feet.  No
touch of hand suffices now
in this bare stark place of defeat.

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