Breakfast.

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.