Thursday, September 22, 2011


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.

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