Monday, April 11, 2016

Winter Rubble

New leaves strive in the rite of exchange
take the place of blossoms even if they 
don't bear fruit there are so many flowers
hanging above the cold ground down down
onto the memory of winter's tomb resting
on tomorrow's rooftop   dashing away 

gas the countrymen spray into the pushing crowd
marks where the land       breaks       faces
burning hot       cheeks        eyes        mouths
weeds needing killing.  Pulling.  Before sunset.
Rolling    razor wire   someday we’ll be sitting

at a table remembering  how and saying why.

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