Postcard From the Party
Homage to Wang Wei
The Highest Hill of Hope
On 52nd Street
By Small And Small: Midnight To 4 a.m
Brian Cullman
Rebecca Martin
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  Poetry I Like : "The Highest Hill of Hope"
by D. Nurkse
 

I combed my hair
in the last row of graves
before my father's.

I caught my breath
after the long climb.

Below me the statues
glittered like wheat.

Angels, cenotaphs,
stones worn to a gleam,
a scrim where you might trace
the arc of a number
or the inner groove
where a prayer was erased.

Whom have I
in Heaven but thee?

The city of the dead
has it's own distractions;
birdsong, a faint bell,
a jet slowly vanishing
over Canada, leaving a white scar.

I knelt and practiced
seeking mercy from a slab
scored with the word FATHER.

     
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