Peter Balakian - Saigon / New Jersey

It was russet light, Orchard Lane, white-shingle colonials and the ch ch of the sprinklers, small rainbows in twilight, the fabric smell of funeral parlor on us From a fence we fell to the fairway on all fours, a sky of purple berries, my hand swollen from a doubleheader, Ho Chi Minh, a tin sound in the air.