The children, with their
sweaty hands, run to the
Americans like geese.
They beg to be held, to
be thrown, to be anywhere
but on the abyssmal ground.
They hold on tightly about
our necks and our ears,
sure that suspended here,
eventually, they'll fly.
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3 comments:
Ridiculously good.
Love this Glenn! Beautiful.
Thinking of feeding the geese with Pa in Woodcreek... now thinking of those Geese jumping on my neck. Scary, thanks for the image.
(asside from my childhood flashback, love the poem!)
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