Twice in the final hour a French <br />horn will crow. Examine the bark <br />of trees. At a ceremony to celebrate <br />oblivion, a peal of thunder <br />was birthed into meaning. <br /> <br />Two eagles descended, lapping <br />the horse that won the race of existence. <br /> <br />A loud voice: On the final day <br />of snow, flutes and whistles slowly <br />circle weeping caballeros. <br /> <br />To sublet summer <br />there are twelve silences <br />and two lambs. <br /> <br />A hand claps the thirteenth <br />silence, as if a shell upon a liquescent beach. <br /> <br />Planted in a field against a shadow, <br />a priest spun webbed echoes the size of <br />Easter. A new constellation, itself backward, <br />now drips upon the pavement <br />electronic obsidian.<br /><br />Larry Sawyer<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/of-foreign-coins/
