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,

Re-cackling--

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

of toppling.

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

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

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

Sweetly and hungrily heard chirping.