In The Murder Of It All
I saw her face
the smallness of her steps
one stolen half minute
on the steps of a church
arms track-worn
fingers scratching at the wind
she lies silently in thought
a cruel sun scoring lines in her face
softly touching the window sill
begging for morning’s brethren
to quell an ache in her arm
that never falters out of step
in the murder of it
