the futility of poetry

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

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