Tuesday, March 30, 2010


In America

A child sitting on the edge of a cot
in the cell of a jailhouse;

his head droops into his folded arms,
the toes of his stocking feet
skimming the ground;

10 feet above his head is a slice of light
onto sky and barbed wire.

On someone’s sidewalk there are teddy bears
and candles, photographs and photographers.

In a hospice for dying children there is wailing,
there are caresses and prayer, hope
for an end to grievous pain.

Not in this cell, in this jailhouse
no candles, no caresses; a slice of light
onto sky and barbed wire.


Considering “Empire” by Kaplan – The Day After

Warm, always warm
every day, warm
not hot, never hot, warm
everyday, warm
every night

A bird, not an eagle
dozes on a railing,
a suspended railing
in danger of melting
into the smoky milk
of a triumphal arch

while smaller beings
too new to remember cold
poke, scamp about
in yellow light,
and plot