This poem is taken from Stand 229, 19(1) March - May 2021.

Chloe D'Arcy The Hour
A soft silence, a crowd of black. Black suits;
6 men, with more than a chip on their shoulders.
4 boots in front of 4 boots in front of 4 boots.
No one utters a word, as the room grows colder still.
Shoulder to shoulder, dark sleeve to dark sleeve,
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