Ground/zero

The rubble can’t sleep
it is too busy screaming.

From the ground floor
what really counts is number,
that isn’t really ground
or even at least one:
It is less then a few
it’s the zero
the round and perfect o
of a lidless eye.

Where the heartbeats beat
now there is only still,
the hushed weep
of the shovel,
the mournful rustle
of the broom
which moves dust apart
from the roots of time.

On the sly
nightmares laugh.

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