Thursday, April 24, 2014
They sold the youngest and most
handsome of every village where they
passed the night, and these girls have
been trafficked in hundreds throughout
the brothels of the Ottoman Empire.
i am haunted in my hunting
for you dear god hear
the leaves are already hurling through the
the trees are off
it's quarter to twelve and i thought you'd be
here by now
your slippers are
This poem has appeared in the Washington Review's December 1986-January 1987 issue.