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Mahogany dreams of a body. Carpenter's nails pierce quickly, their long thin shafts plunge deep in the grain, as robins twitter from flickering trees and wind drifts over the churchyard.

Chisels scrape, a stonecutter pounds, footsteps strike the rainy street as rough words scribble a name.

Wives of carpenters linger at home; wives of stonecutters roll in their sleep. Hollow spaces must be filled and mahogany dreams of a body.

Dark clouds drift through the churchyard gates as nails and chisels slumber.

A clock ticks, a white shroud flutters.

A rustle sounds in the chamber.

Black crows rise as mahogany dreams and a rustling body advances. Footsteps drift as the dark wood waits, the workers grasp their tools....

Starlight slides down the slope of  evening. Dawn seeps over the hills.

Morning rises, robins twitter. Sunlight marbles the churchyard. At home, wives glance at empty beds, eyes and mouths despairing.

Mahogany clings to a body. A body clings to a shroud.

A carpenter sprawls near an opened box, a stonecutter bleeds on his stone.

A rustling stops in the chamber.

- Paul Kesler
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