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Neighborhood Magic

A Poem for Stephen Thomas
An Ode to Ishi

A man marks a line in an old oak tree
Drawing a line between you and me
Blood glistens in the rain
Frozen in the last remains
The lineage of man
Drawing a line in the sand
A monument to humanity
The last bit of nature’s dignity
Holding names for centuries held here
The circumfrance scores
All that we needed to hear
A century of genocide
Two hundred thousand people stored here
Nature’s wisdom lost in years
Time counting in numbers
Time breathing in seconds
A woman cuts a line in an old oak tree
A man digs a hole
A time left here
Holding up for something
Something more
Please, please be our last honest heir
Beaconing the century forward
Progress is where it starts
Isn’t it, isn’t right here?
Hands up who knows what it’s like to stand here
Hands up, hands up, don’t stop counting
Five breaths, five people here
Hands up do you know what it’s like to be here
A woman draws a line
A man digs a hole
Cutting, cutting a line in an old oak tree
A man finds a treasure to be told