Poetry

Here where the dark-sourced stream brims up,
Reflecting daylight, making sound
In its stepped fall from cup to cup

I spring joy out of my rib cage
Like a flash of pigeons flying North
South here in Mississippi, Florida

Out of a patch of fog, or the branches
of a broken tree, or as a light
suddenly aglow on the ceiling—
they assemble themselves, and briefly appear.

Here in this wadi we lived during the war.
Many years have passed since then, many victories
and many defeats. I have gathered many consolations in my life