Poetry

  For all the years he worked as a pattern cutter
in the denim sweatshops of Los Angeles,
  my father never spoke of what it was he did.

It is night. I feel it is night
not because darkness has fallen
(what do I care about darkness falling)
but because down in myself the shouting
has stopped, has given up.

I just left them there holding their breath,
summer dripping from their honeyed
muzzles. 

A day comes
when it has always been winter,
will always be winter.