Waiters on Shoreline
When I met Everyman on a shore, I called him
a dirty word, stole his flatbottom, rowed 
into winter waters.  He caught up with me
by following the gatherings of crows.
Together, again we prayed at the river’s edge.
A delta formed in the clouds.  Together
we killed the song bird, called it Mercy
as we ate it.  
From there it grows hard 
to relate exactly who killed whom.  The sand
speckled with white pebbles?
The six children in black hoodies 
waiting the tables set there by the water?
Tables that sat the dead.
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