Miasma Poem by Abraham de la Torre
Miasma
They used to attack
at dawn
when the dirt of light
is still dark
the air assuming
a nebulizing
calm
the agony almost
a memory
coughing
heaving
wheezing
gasping for blasted breath
ignored and accepted
the hours dwindling
while the white man
and the black bag
and the panacea
prepare.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
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4/26/2024 4:58:25 AM # 1.0.0.1119
