DANIEL KHALASTCHI
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Poem: (With It We Bury)

              The poles keep the city standing and
                            the boys aren’t coming home—
                                             aren’t
                                    coming home to fill their boxes,   aren’t
                                    coming home to tend the hedge; 
                                                                   the

                        boys aren’t coming home
                                for much this time,
                                              aren’t
                          coming home to tend the hedge.
                  And our drug stores sell
                                     ribbons for

         too much this time, and
                         our cars
                         tree streets   for our boys.
                           Our drug stores sell
                                        ribbons,   sell
                                 treats for the kids,

                    and our cars       
                           tree the streets      for our boys.
                                And door to door men keep coming
                        selling treats for the kids
                                  who can’t afford
                              the cost of their leagues;

                                               door to door men are coming,
                                                     coming home without boys,
                                               who can’t afford
                                            the cost of their league.
                    And to the girls that are
                                                                     left

                                 coming home without
                                                                             boys,
                                              you should lay back
                                         and do it yourselves;
                               all the girls we have left,
                                                    straying still in their beds,

                               lay back
                                              and do it yourselves.
                                                        Until the weak pull the
                                            grasses        straying still in their beds        
                                            the boys who aren’t home
                                             won’t come.

                                                                       Until the weak pull the grasses,
                                                                          poles keep stand the city—
                                                                the boys who aren’t home
                                                         won’t come,  
                                                                 aren’t coming
                                                          home to fill their boxes.