Poem #15

Fragment on Immigration, XX XIII

 
Fail the gale of trees: to shutter, yet never shush again.
Olive leather shivered from a stomp like lightning.
Fear not the storm at remove from a dull pane,
where light of fodder may flail a wooden table or a steely sink.
 
Said Barbara, “Build a wall to bar and bound my land.”
Imagine: so far from any war behind a wall the vibrato of a bomb,
nor tremolo of a fallen mom, whom watched towering flames
crinkle a city’s stone to none, weeps none nor wets her face,
 
for she has never burned the same. News heroes pull, move, and brush off
crude people from rubble, antiques of family, and souvenirs of love, say,
“War takes another to this brink of life, rise and go free into the world.”
O lone, Barbara Xenophobe! culture to farthest reaches from you whirled
 
as the cruelty of your words of walls swirled
into sore ears of the different people that you hate.
Is there no end to Greed, your precious mate?
Exhaustingly, Barbara won’t change.
 
She escapes into her comfortable tv world.

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