Old story

Tonight, the stars will fall.
He will dig up his own grave;
she will be ransacked like a drawer.
The men in black jackets with hoods
will troop back safely to their house,
clean their guns,
wipe their knives & booze.
There will be a rosary of lights
winding around the city
& old men & women
will assault the heavens
with their human cry.
Windows & doors will be shut tight
lest the voices from the cemetery
deafen their ears
& they go mad.
Dogs will not bark, however:
they were silent witnesses.
Tomorrow night,
the men in black jackets with hoods
will troop out of the house –
this time promising to perfect their craft:
there should be no remembering.
O but the telltale heart
beating in the wind
speaks the secret languages
of the dead!

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