The Antioch Review, September 22nd, 1999
Some people fleeing some other people.
In some country under the sun
and particular clouds.
They leave behind some of their own everything,
sown fields, some chickens, dogs,
mirrors in which fire now sees itself reflected.
They have on their backs pitchers and bundles,
the emptier, the heavier from one day to the next.
Taking place stealthily is somebody's stopping
and in the commotion, somebody's bread somebody's snatching
and a dead child somebody's shaking.
In front of them some still not the right road,
and not the bridge that's needed
over the river strangely rosy.
Around ...
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