Impossible Constructions

Broken is my reaction:
A child, now a man,
lifts a child, both dusted,

carried, one barefooted
caught in sleep, or poverty?
He looks dead,

must his back be bared?
Or does his red shirt roll
over his hung head to mask his death?

But it could be . . .

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The Mountains

A grey-faded memory of my émigré aunt,
on the quayside,
where we saw her off on a mountainous ship:

My Dad, an old salt, so going aboard,
(treading the deck) was required,
until we disembarked, before her departure.

**

On that same dock, over twenty years later,
I . . .

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