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On the Edges Of Sleep – Poems of War and Memory

I
don’t
know
when it
stopped,
this
scratching
inside
my skin,
or if
it indeed
is just
resting—
I wander
around
town streets
paved
with their
emptiness,
a shared
kinship—
I sit under
A street lamp
looking
into
a pothole,
committing
to an act
of concentration,
I
touch
the aching
of 1,000
years
of loss;
confronted
by
wide eyes 

disappearing

into

surf,

slipping beneath 

the

sea,

held

in its

depths

far from

my view,

never to be 

touched

again

in loving 

embrace

except

in

day dreams

and 

nightmares,

I

cry—

if only

I

had been

a stronger 

swimmer.

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