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Three New York Poems
III.

Memorial Day, USA

Once a month or so
i am reminded how much of me is dying
A 3AM roll from slumber
into a ball
an egg
the first circle

The pain won't subside
~not for five more days or so
And so, i flip on tv where

Once a week or so
i'm greeted by residual voyeurism in
high rotation from "the scene of the event"
forensic professionals
disoriented wounded
unconcerned demised of blessed file footage

As a blue moon rises
my blood and tissue treacle from clothing like syrup
counter clockwise spirals
across porcelain white as an egg
down the drain
into the sea
the first home

While outside the Nablus Gate
and just south of Megiddo
blood and tissue trickle down tarmac
edge toward rose coloured limestone, ancient home of sacrifice;
are lovingly acquired
swabbed
blessed
burned (Dust to ashes
        Ashes to dust.)

Our blood hangs in the atmosphere
like hamsin
like rain in the desert
In a red and orange mandala
we kill ourselves
each other
by waiting
by living
Most of us dont realize we're part of the circle.

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