by Don Judson
Go there
The beautiful shirt
The ideals which seem It's no one's world
II.
Sahel means victory the
Irrevocable dead strung along streets like sacks of cloth Pitiful starlings
This war
Little bag of God Here at home: the city cupped in rain the mid-
Week morning: sketched trees a few huddled figures
Just now opening themselves & yet the world is never truly concealed it is
Despite your wishes no more than the steady
Channeled rain the dreaming homeless and
There again in the morning paper & on the news: Our children sent
--not with shame
never with shame--Accept
it embrace
the
fallen the drawn sheet
of
Don Judson is a poet and fiction writer who lives in Providence, Rhode Island. His novel, Bird--Self Accumulated won a Bobst Emerging Fiction Writer Award from NYU. He has published poems numerous journals.
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