Monday, April 18, 2011

Poem #18

"November 2004"

The Raritan moves slow in its silt
a gray sheen to its surface--
On Hoes Lane, in the cold sun
we bury him next to burning bushes
bright with their flaming leaves
Who knew he'd stay here in Piscataway?
The immigrant who saw war
survived Bataan
then came here
to deliver mail

We left oranges for him
so that he'd rest in sweetness--


[a totally unfinished poem. unfinished and incomplete in every sense of the word. ah, the madness of the 30/30 challenge.]

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