I still cannot write about it
find that warm tavern in my mind
familiar place, lit by memories of your faded
fluorescent pink hair
smiles and red stained fingers
when last I saw you
in our kitchen helping to slice strawberries
store our summer's yield
still can't find the right words
to fold like tissue paper
around images of your dad's upturned car
below on the tracks
be opened like tattered goodbyes
to a thirteen year old boy
instead, what jars my mind tonight
when thinking of you again,
my friend, is how long those wheels
might have spun
like in the movies
autumn comes early for New York City
before the leaves, bronzed
and crimson
before the laughter of children
in central park
twinkling sounds
of dog-tags on a dog's collar
joggers swishing ankle deep
through brittle trails
this September
a funnel of debris
vacuum of understanding
relinquishes
such arbitrary scale
high heeled shoes
wedding bands, desk top
photos, monitors, broker files
telephones, cafeteria food trays
pretzled beams of steel
cornucopias of concrete pieces
and rising through the dust
not exactly rubble
numbers the ranks of angels
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Donna Hill lives in British Columbia, Canada with her three sons. She has
been seriously writing poetry for a few years now, drawing much of her
writing style for realism from life around her, her family, and her work as
a child educator. She currently is poetry editor of Erosha, a literary
journal of the erotic. Donna's poems have appeared in print issues of One Dog Press, Sex in Public, Poems
Niederngrasse and Peshekee River and have also been published online by
numerous literary webzines. Her poem, "my hands write when I need them to," took first prize in Comrades first annual poetry contest, while "the moon is
a sliver tonight" placed seventh. Both poems are slated to appear in
Comrades upcoming anthology, 2001.
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