Four Poems


I follow the mirage of a man and his son

in a boat. They drift on the shifting dune peaks,
they raise their shoulders against the wind.
I call to them, my voice a large dog in a crowded yard.
Do they also holler at the sun? I have no faculty to hear them.

On Earth I made men into mist, and now feel my own

dust wander,

lift, and swirl. In the Afterlife, the weight of bodies
is heavy on the scale. If I were allowed to cry,
my tears would rust its beams. In the Afterlife, their weight
is a smoking fuse. Their souls don’t extinguish, they ignite
and reignite and never explode. I wait.
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