by Jeremy Marks
Leaves and shovels
leave them where they fall.
Where we have dug a whole
peripatetic little feet
will fill it.
This pit won’t swell, tumbling
the gardens, house and street
when it rains, as it settles.
The noise of children
is floating above
the careless bludgeon
of their parents
all of it resting on a handle
beneath the leaves
by a tree
tossed across a stump.
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