Poetry | November 08, 2019

What Is to Be Done?
        for S. Reddick, 1976
I’ll answer your question now, the one you
asked that evening we sat in your room,
the hot plate you never used, not even
for coffee, windows filmed with the dust
of voices that reached us years later.
The river was weeds. The sentinel towers
of the canneries and sawmills that crowded
its banks. The river glossed with pronouncements
of dread. The graveyard hours you stood on
the peach line, the polished corrugated
light, women and men in white aprons
roaming through warehouses, trailing the sun.

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