Poems from the
Inside
Seek
the light of day . . .
September Third,
Two Thousand
The paper's page lies open, page 8A;
The New York Times. Six Albanian coffins,
so still - silently wait reinterment.
Such a sad, somber, grey September day.
A woman speaks in passing, her voice soft
yet rising from the crowd; and like a splinter
impales my breath, my being; impales time:
"I'm glad I saved you from a fate like that."
Heart on fire, consciousness drowning, while time
stands on its head. Breathless and tense I sit,
hiding eyes glaring 'neathe the brim of my hat.
Must the neural-linguist always talk trash?
presenting suggestions utterly crass;
the mind becomes brittle - shatters like glass.
© D. Winter
September 3, 2000
