The teeth

The white bone boulders

Like little Easter islanders

Gazing out to the world

Half buried in flesh

Cursed like any organic

To fail in cracks and fissures

Fine comrades standing together

Always the weaker ones

Undermine the old order

And falling away slowly

Crumbling, splitting, loosened

No real age but hard working

Feel the gaps of lost friends.


© Jennifer Winterburn


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