painting by Marlene Vine, poem by Roy Herndon Smith
the sirens are not
so frequent now that I am
in the corona
not still in the heart
of the explosion; again
I hear birds calling
the sometime rumble
of trucks and the back-up beeps
and the long moments
of humming stillness
between; again the unheard
implodes, a siren
rising and falling
intensifying, fading
all that is is tears
dust 
Haunting and beautiful, Roy, and thank you.
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