The Strangest Thing

It’s the strangest thing
to have a death give you hope–

and of your own blood
at the hands of a mob.

And with your father reduced
to a grimacing cry.

And “Glen, oh Glen”
just poured out in the wind.

And his voice gone and laugh
gone and muscles gone and eyes

gone. And childhood gone
and old manhood gone.

But night not empty yet
in each other’s arms.

No, love waking up
from its shameful dream.

The tiniest cry
taken up in all throats

until it seems to roar,
it nearly truly sings.

So gone, and so close.
The strangest thing.



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