Roy Herndon Smith
In Great Abaco
in The Mudd, all is destroyed.
It’s raining again.
In Brooklyn, it’s clear.
In Sabbath best, a woman
totters to Temple.
The breezes blow cool
and pleasant here. The winds blow
death and terror there.
Turning and turning,
the earth murmurs and bellows.
All that’s there is here.
The old woman prays
to the unnamable One
for daily mercy.
dust 