by Marc Vincenz
I am one of those souls
without any resources
who roam about
with sleeves rolled up.
As blood oranges
grow out of the face
of autumn, she,
she is a vessel
of pure white jade
against the unfeeling hands
of barbarians.
How would they know the songs
that can break one’s heart?
Her memory is twisted
between two myths.
The one I tell my children.
The one she tells his.
Quite a thought provoking poem.
Cheers, slp!