Time is a velvet ribbon, a river we cross over and try to remember. There is nothing here. Everything they know is here. No time to mourn, my grandmother Dosha says. In train stations whistles blow then disappear in laddered smoke.
Luck is their obstinate companion.
At least they call it that. All Copyright 2001, Rachel Goldstein. All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission. To comment on poetry, go to our public, on-line discussion forum.