POEM: 'Rockets Falling'

and the melon field drinks the cup of wrath.
I go from room to room,
weighing my conscience,
and stop by the window to look at the view.
The river is calm, a boat or two.
Melons, unpicked, are on fire, leaving
black scars. A kid’s kite on a winged
wind disappearing in smoke.

POEM: 'Rockets Falling'

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POEM: 'Rockets Falling'

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