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Monday, 6 September 2021

Hurricane Ida, 2021

Autumn. The waterfall
in Prospect Park I sometimes
can’t find. The pond
like a drain stopped 
with leaves and branches.
Tu Fu’s poems open
on my lap, but I read only
three or four at a time.
Why do I ration?
There is infinite hope
and infinite despair.
Last week a hurricane
tore through here,
drowning dozens in
basements and cars.
The waters have receded,
but they will come again
worse. I sit for a long 
while on this stone.
I’m already tired, and things 
have just begun.
Below me, a turtle 
sends up bubbles. 
Sunlight strikes the water. 
Shadows deepen, and 
that glow lifts 
that makes me yearn 
for the kingdom of heaven.

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