Summer 1937

Aaron Zeitlin

1930s

For my child, today, it is so easy
to make the awful discovery, that people kill
and are killed: both things and people
speak the language of the red angel.
My child asks me: Why are people being murdered, father?
And receives no answer. With lackluster eyes
I look above to the sun of summer.
A leaf on the table. A bloody number.
Through every…
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