ON POVERTY
Like some body left in an harbour, it is
what bloodies our hands that we wake to
the red reeling of time and bleakness behind what
questions us each morning as we jog
memories for the short end of the string,
explanations that floated on night’s bobbing belly,
water logged guilt, and the heavy quilted coat
that holds us down. And we worry not
about the words that should have been
said because we know they won’t be found
as we walk this pier, uncertain
about everything except that light
surely dies when we’re surrounded
by no one.
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