Issue 105, Winter 1987
The Blackened River
The blackened river ran through the park.
Past there, the numb gardens
were hemmed by thick braids of hedges.
Where starlings sang now, a branch
of Auschwitz had been built: under
the grass the bandages
from the Russian infirmary were interred,
therefore the meadow is swollen and rich.
Gliders guiltlessly hovered in the sky,
in rain as benign as a tear of joy.