This poem is taken from Stand 227, 18(3) September - November 2020.
Three Poems
After My Grandfather’s Passing
The streets are bare, silent, deserted
like a war-torn city. Outside his window,
birds cackle and fly across the vast country
of the sky. These birds always return at night
...
The streets are bare, silent, deserted
like a war-torn city. Outside his window,
birds cackle and fly across the vast country
of the sky. These birds always return at night
...
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