Sunday, April 15, 2007


Here she is in her crouch
and hop dance. Knuckles
scrape the ground, shoulders
bunched against the weight,
face mooshed to the dust laden whirls
of breathing inner city.

Hunker down so as not to be
a tall scarlet flower
wafting above the milling throng.

Would you sit in a bright lit room
and allow tears to flow freely?
Do you know the ground
you step on is an open grave?


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