I cannot not carry such stoned, monumental devices with me.
And, believe they will avert the problems that breathe my air.

…

Thin line.

Town line.

Country store.

It is all the same.

I carry your tomb on my back.

And, provincial problems remain.

Dredging the dirt from my soul.

I find nothing is leftover but Christmas coal.

Still I shoulder your epitaph filled with Canterbury tales.

Where it is taught,

‘God’s only son…prevails.’

If only I understood what it is, you wanted me to stand for.

I could sustain your words…more easily.