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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