by Victor
Provenzano
It will
not do
any more,
blind Gaza,
where I’ve
lived as a child
for 8
years, thin and thinning,
barely
daring to drink
water.
Eyeless
Samson,
I have
to slice
off
your hair:
its posse
of asps.
Falling
head with one chin,
wide as a
whiteblue
chin
strap,
And a
foot in the shallows,
shooting
the fish folk in a blue
film of
salt, like fish
in a
barrel.
I’d pray
to Allah to spare you,
Samson.
Yet, Samson,
in agon,
I’m
through.
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