Kyle Norwood

The Statues of Children

Here the abstruse moonlight falls

on a field as blank as sky.

Birds nestle in a flight of desks

and build their nests from pencil shavings.

 

Here are kept

all the statues of children.

They are all naked; they have taken off

their potential.

 

Out here, the self-

consuming fires burn billions of years,

and faraway places are

unreachable as faraway times.

 

Stone animals, pure and ruthless

as the white trajectory across

an April ball-field—as it turns out

we don’t need them.  So they come here.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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ISSUE 92
Numantia

 

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