Thursday, May 25, 2006

1918

Top of the storm door.
I am enjoying the cove breezes
The potage of the race's crush
A sore plot to distract me
From the trim. The wide wild
Artery night reads me
Some bop prosody, too. Guys,
I am a loner. I can't vet
The wint-o-green pacecar
Hooky y'all wanna dress up
As the new work. Ask me why
And I'll crinkle a bag. I'm just
Going to keep this house right.