Must still hang

I am lit by the light
     of the sun through
the panes of the glass
     and I think:

The swings of the park
     on that day in the
sun, long ago,
     must still hang

and the ground with the
     bits of the glass that
were ground and were lit
     by the sun, must still flash.

That my feet, long and
     white, wide and flat
that once kick several rocks
     at a tree in that park

must now stand and retreat
     to this day, to the light;
past the sun and the rocks and
     the glass on the ground,

and I hear every drop
     of those grains from the
ground as they fall to the glass
     that was made by the sun.

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