The Sichuan earthquake in south central China killed at least 80,000 people and left more than 5 million homeless.
The road
is outlined
five, six, ten deep
with people
who gather to its warmth
hang from its length.
Your eyes in my headlights
are slivers in midnight's deep gray
grasping for your child,
powerless to wrench him
from road's belly.
The road,
your last belonging.
With this piece, I would really like to hear what you think works and what does not work. Could a few of you let me know what you think is happening in the poem and what it poem is saying? That would be really helpful.
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