cinquain poetry
In the heart of the motherland
cinquain
clutching
a torn bedsheet
this shape in the doorway —
at least the nights have grown warm in
our town
The verse came to mind because I'm doing some work for a woman who
founded one of the homeless shelters in the county, and who told me a
story about how one day she had witnessed one of their long time
visitors die right there in her office. It came out as an emotional
poem with the feelings suggested, not overt, which is always what I
prefer.
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