For the young women going door to door, black dresses, fishnet stockings,
asking if we’ve thought about death on this beautiful fall Saturday.
For the light that has made it through the trees.
For the black coffee I drink from cracked Styrofoam.
For my neighbors settled on their steps, depressed.
For disembarking into a world of objects and calling bells.
Do you write political poems?
All poems are political.
To write a poem in these times is a political act. Roberto Juarroz
When I come home to my cat, my heart gives me away.
I’m quiet, withdrawn, nervous. August and expected rain.
I’m not talking about poems about Afghanistan.
We need those. I mean, I ate this, I read that poems.
When one wants to lie down in the shadow of hawk and pine.
When one wants to look into death’s crossed eyes.
It’s cooler, now…
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