Bonus poem post, NOT on a Tuesday!

Prospect Hill

My arm on his leg.
Just under your feet.

You are here for
the view; we have

none. Only earth.
Only quiet. We were

left. Not put in
those boxes.

Not moved anymore.
I don’t know his name.

There’s no way to ask.
Still, there is something.

Listen. How it sings
in your bones.