Poetry

I start to delete the e-mail from Vincent, not
knowing

anybody by that name, when I realize the address

is my father’s.

“A Serb farmer used a grinding machine to cut in half his farm tools and machines to comply with a court ruling that he must share all his property with his ex-wife.” – Reuters report

The world is filled with gods

They are like nothing
else in the world

This is how you know they are gods

The lot

was stones

and corners,

rafters shafts

of stars

and certainty.

Here

You never hear the people
who jump.

Their steps echo on decks
above in consonants spit after
splash.