Sunday, July 13, 2014


On the Southeast side, a mile high
the news of another end
chimes as a warning 
and I do not cry this time.

Across the Anacostia we are
black and white—divided even in the house on the hill
I can feel the world rupturing 
into pieces.

There are fault lines
tearing through a billion lives
or more,
convincing us that boundaries
truly do exist.

But is it a matter of falling through the cracks?

I’m back on a park bench
But this time physics don’t make sense.
A lack of familiarity doesn’t
prevent the pause, the breath, and 
the breaking point.

Death is dying all around me.

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