Saturday, June 23, 2012

The losing party.

Who may I hear singing?

Though the tune gets so incautiously lost in dynamite explosions!

In peppermint; I taste it!

In breezes, in ease.  In thrift.

In curtains forlorn for those who might but haven't parted them.
Listen to the leisurely red crackling and then in laughing,


Listing, as the idylls
of vertigo
found in stacking
Things up to
the hilarity

of toppling.

The air upon them calms me, which is why I find myself

A losing party cuts sentiment in final stone--not so much in conveyance as in tone
Neither theirs, nor their own,

From the dim lawn and hapless crickets
The rich fingers of a harp are most

Sweetly and hungrily heard chirping.

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