this joy now

i have my collections
the shells, the little stones,
things joy took me down for

they are precious in the smoke 
of death, a hole in town
dug for history

don't say this war is holy

martyrs are assailed for goodness
lord knows 

your bulging hatred cannot kill love

stay back, let the dogs bark up the living

the agony, as always, comes later,
a land of traps hidden as things 
you've stooped to prize


after the World Trade Center attacks


© Copyright 2001 Peter Chapman

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