They come back with wool sweaters
and coats smelling of straw and shit
smoking their old cigars
ashes flaking from chin and cheeks.
They come back with glistening shells
pain in their joints — rooms of water.
Salt glittering on their lips
they walk on rock
where fish gasp and choke
and stars cluster in sand.
Sun rains into the abyss.
They come back with ruined hands and backs
hurling coins across oceans
building bridges with knots and fists
digging up cities of corpses
rotting under the rainbow
as doves fly out of their pockets
scavenging the carnage.
From: http://www.2river.org/2RView/13_3/poems/friedman.html
Date: 2009
By: Jeff Friedman (19??- )
From Troubles of The World 