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a poem by David McLean (1 of 2)

they come

they come to nowhere,
wearing the weight of airplanes
and no explanation, a passionate

absence, children digging nothing
on summer sun beaches running
past memory and broken glass,

because somewhere happy lives its life
on television a drop of timeless night,
evidently, sunlit freedom a house

on a hopeless empty prairie
where all the madness is sleeping
god's homeless holiday;

for it is flesh forever here,
dead as a body ever was,
destinations that come to stay

© by David McLean
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #30 ~ April 2014    next poem