somebody blew up boston
yesterday, but at least it’s sunny
here, though I must say
still cold. this bookstore
has an entire room given over
to poetry, row upon row of new
and selected, collected this
and that, each page scratching
toward something that might be true.
three dead, seventeen legs
torn off, the face of a dead
eight year old boy smiling
from the front page of the Times.
spare me your metaphors, this
is a truth that explodes
all reason, this is a truth
that kills us all. Boom, my children,
Boom, then Boom again.
© April 18, 2013
J.A Fink