Harry Joles

beneath the shrill buzz of fluorescent strobe
lies the mass grave of crickets, roaches, june bugs,
and the like, all molded into the intricate grooves
of suspended pebbles frozen like slaves to the soles of men.
My soles too rest with the insects
amidst our lowly conclave of rubber and ectoplasm,
dried skeletons and flesh, an altar to beauty.

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The 2River View, 2_1 (Fall 1997)