Category: Poetry

For a man in a concentration camp
Any move is the wrong move,
Twisting tightens the bonds
and strangles flesh.

As much as I would
fly to you,
you must arc to me
on gilded wing

We are wedded with tragedy
Like a night flight
Shrouded with nervous attendants.
Sparrows fall from trees

A dream of damaged men,
who carry themselves
(and worthy causes)
like piles of shattered flint
in ungloved hands.

If you are
laid low
by brute facts
split on Apex and Flame