This is a grassy ghetto, and no home. - A. M. Klein

The animals pale, the shine of the fur is lost, bleached are their living bones. About them watch as through a mist, the pious prosperous ghosts.

And my tears, too, have stained this heirloomed ground,
When reading in these treatises some weird
Miracle, I turned a leaf and found
A white hair fallen from my father's beard.

For the tourist's
brown pennies scattered at the old church door,
the ragged papooses jump, and bite the dust.