of the trip we made to....
you knew where, the place that can’t be named
because we are not wanted there
as we should be
one remnant is liquid blue
one remnant is worn to thread
one remnant is burning sad songs into the firmament
and it’s sticking, I can hear it, it’s sticking
when we scrounged up the will
to step over the hooded homeless and go in for coffee
we were branding the city with our disappointment
we walked in and out quickly
because to stay and linger
would not have been Egyptian
April 22, 1999
2 comments:
Ali, could this poem be about you and your cousin's trip to Berkeley, shortly after both of you had been rejected by that town's famous university's grad school?
yes
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