We carved boats out of dead trees
and cooked our food on the ends
of heavy knives.
It took two thousand years but we
made it here to shake and tremble
in the silence of this empty house.
Others watch a power line
torn in last week’s storm
sway like empty gallows
by the roadside.
Little towns pass around
baskets of peppers
whispering about
how trees cluster
so perfectly
on the distant hill.
Black metal fences
separate the living from the dead,
and the gate is minded
by a balding man
in a wooden chair
petting a cat.
When one side
wants to visit the other
he pulls a massive chain
within arms reach of his station,
and the gate opens
letting worlds collide
for only precious
moments at a time.
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