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Heart of the Tearing

A chap book of poetry, Red Dust Press


Four Eggs and a Ring


Atop this roof

I could see smoke stacks wherever I looked,

couldn't spot the sandals I lost, running.

Today I'll step down:

the bazaar may have opened again—

long lines, a radio crackling like foil.


They say I can have four eggs

for my toe ring of silver,

bundles of samosas for my watch.


Burnt fields, no more cane to weave.

Beyond, a train waits for people, coal

to take to the city.

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