I hunted heaven for him. No dice. Too uppity, it was. Not enough music, or dark dirt. I begged the earth empty of him. Death believes in us whether we believe or not. For a long while I watch the sound of a boy bouncing a ball down the block take its time to reach me. Father, find me when you want. I’ll wait. BY KEVIN YOUNG (Poetry, 9/11)
"Episode in a Library" [poem]
A blonde girl is bent over a poem. With a pencil sharp as a lancet she transfers the words to a blank page and changes them into strokes, accents, caesuras. The lament of a fallen poet now looks like a salamander eaten away by ants. When we carried him away under machine-gun fire, I believed that his still warm body would be resurrected in the word. Now as I watch the death of the words,...
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