Archived Poetry

 
from Winter 2005 [Issue No. 5]

Revenant

Curt Rode



The dead donít haunt us;
We haunt the dead.
 
Our steps strain the floorboards
As we seek them
 
Drowsing on their verandas,
Their glasses of tea never quite spilling
 
Until we speak their names
And startle them, wet-fingered, awake.


 

 

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