One more night in the burning box.
One more day in the sullied streets.

Grey battered erasers–once a perfect
pink–pressed upon for endless years,
dangle against bony shoulders.

Another afternoon.
Silent stones recline in expectant tombs.
Even if they had tongues, they would not
speak.  Their surrender is complete.

One more day in the sullied streets.
One more night in the burning box.