...if You Do Not Even

For You Are Abstract, Making No Mistake, Slurring No Word In The Rhythm You Make, The Poem, Writ In The Air.

When The Shingles Hissed In The Rain Incendiary, Other Values Were Revealed To Us

A Slight Wind Shakes The Seed-pods My Thoughts Are Spent As The Black Seeds.

I Knew The Poor, I Knew The Hideous Death They Die, When Famine Lays Its Bleak Hand On The Door; I Knew The Rich, Sated With Merriment, Who Yet Are Sad.

Lift Up Our Eyes To You? No, God, We Stare And Stare, Upon A Nearer Thing That Greets Us Here, Death, Violent And Near.