tremor raze at the confluence of two streets named for prosperity and nobility, an old man swaddled in tan slacks and a white short-sleeved shirt stood stooped and still but for the trembling of his right hand. he struggled with the thin-skinned soldier until it fell in line behind his back, and there the left hand clasped and calmed it as well as it was able. this is how we hold ourselves when there's only memory where another body should be. and this is the song we sing, with vitreous voice and wavering pitch: blood of my bones. dust of my dreams. gather your grains and cover me. 260713 what's it to you? who go blather from