Communion | Ken Farrell | The Piltdown Review



Soon you will speak

to an empty room

calmed by the weight

of echoes, of space.

Alone you become

a snowflake of grief;

each crystal stalk sings

a separate ache, longs

for a moist flame, a child’s tongue.



ones speak

as a room full

of longing tongues

we will flames to sing crystals

each child becomes moist snowflakes

each child awaits ache in emptied spaces

each child stalking the echo of separate griefs  




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