Closed Book Worship

perhaps in the sink, clogged, remains
courage, huddled up,
shaking in the dead-grief of its memory, where

it can’t rinse off what happened, but only
night-after-night, re-
play it, so as to make an attempt at finding, what
was

lost, as a potential opportunity for, coming to terms with,
what happened—in hopes of, in search for—
justice, but

during the cycle of the watchful-hour, again and
again, time lived, the time
used, while heart-beating becomes re
run

after re
run, nothing happens other
than a still-life painting casting
sculpture-shadow onto

museum floor, can
anyone else see it—see the shadow it casts?
there is nothing left, meanwhile

the earth continues to spin
having nothing to do with what happened in the desert

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