Fall 1994 • Vol. XVI No. 4 Poetry |

For the Field

From the seven small windows of my room: the last of the maple's stars have fallen. There are new browns to see, ochers and grays. The rain on the leaves, a minstrel all day. Come across the field. I wish you would now. With our dutiful mothers, come across, with the gold stolen from their cousins' teeth. I wouldn't ask if I weren't ready. How is it that six million deaths equal one atrocity? With our ragged trust, come across, not my god but my lover. Our wailing beasts and mirrors in shambles, with darkness that lights the blue-green numbers, our lost as many as leaves, come across.

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From the seven small windows of my room: the last of the maple's stars have fallen. There are new browns to see, ochers and grays. The rain on the leaves, […]

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From the seven small windows of my room: the last of the maple's stars have fallen. There are new browns to see, ochers and grays. The rain on the leaves, […]

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