Dominic S. Failla
June 2010

Where does my poetry come from?
the sweet honey
of fear
a fist of dark stars
children making soap
out of ancient clay
windows opened—on a summer day—
to breaths of joy
women dressed in black
harvesting wine grapes
the hot sun
burning in their heads
bonfires of desires
the aroma of chick pea soup
rising from wooden bowls
cradled by tired hands in the dusk.

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