What Web Was Woven?
or bad mistake
slipped a stitch?
I breathe the smog of China.
Mongolia’s winds blow gold sand
to dust my garden.
An Iranian woman writes fourteen lines of poetry.
I read them the next morning online.
I can’t explain this.
in a web frayed
Poet's Notes: We are not spiders. We don't spin webs but we humanists talk like we do, as if there is an interconnectedness among people that transcends race and differences. Then one shot from a gun, one more suicide bombing and the web we hope for seems frayed and tattered. On the west coast we do get the dust winds of Mongolia and China coming our way. We are so close on a fragile planet.
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