XII.

from All night in the new country

By Miriam Bird Greenberg


South into the country of lost things

_______________we passed through quiet

villages. The wind sprang up

overnight and some mornings

we awoke as dunes

in a desert of dust. A fine sand blew in

from the north and what of emptied

towns after a year of windstorms:

would the rafters and rooflines

show their spines against

the rising soil? Those years we became

strangers to ourselves and sought the future

in any sign; if the sands

hadn’t overtaken the road

we arrived on by morning,

soon enough the winter rains,

or an army whose trajectory

needed no extant path,

would.


Read Miriam Greenberg’s Early In The Day Of The Solar Eclipse and Before The World Went To Hell

Or read more poetry in our current issue