For a man named Troy Davis, about whom seventy-two hours ago I knew nothing.
The casualties were grown in the soil of a single imagination.
Maybe one errs to curse, prefers roses, or so and so
Thinks the harvest of flowers has a brain and knows.
But cup away those weak young hands,
And impart in them what they need:
Let leaves concede their rainy awful deeds;
Let the corpulent colors of petals bloom--
And as roses be polite: let those go on and bleed.
Temper goodness in their hungry fingers and unwitheredness.
In the little--relieve them from the slump of roses, the sins upon their noses.
Clear the formidable stems from the table and roses and all they to us mean:
Prepare a place for silliness to express,
And waffles with blueberries.