24 gone-

Another 7-

Now 30-

Each with a hollow tick-

Possessing those hands that

Traverse the day

Is one pathway to clemency-

There was never another set of

Prints on the road-

Just two-

Planted firmly in the clay

Like earth-

Each detail of every print lingering

Vividly as if it were freshly



Amid the warm, swirling wind-

The silt of the day depositing into

The deepest of grooves-

Touch them gently or they’ll

Crumble to dust-

24 gone-

Another 7-

Now 30-

The hollow of the tick, catching

Up to the tock-

Gaining speed-

My lips are parched under the

Leaden weight of the sun-

And the heat fans down over me like

A molten wave-

Several of the prints crack and

Erode from the intensity-

But flourish anew with the random

Drop of sweat-

Hollow hands-

And shallow shifts-

Of the 24 gone-

The other 7-

Up to 30-

And the eventual 12-

Shedding light on those sets of


The only 2 on this stretch of



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