Steep is the water tower. Painted off blue to match the sky. . Can't ignore the train. . Night walks in the valley silent. You could swear the earth just moved.
One time. You made me cry. Be proud that I. Remember. . My chin is sore. The bruise is gone. But the spot is tender. . Gave my hand a sister coy. To Cotton Alley where.
Why are some men born. With minds that earn degrees. The loving cups. Gilded plaques. Grace their study walls. Hide the cracks. While their genius is turned.
As frail hinges pivot on a case's door. Commemorative souvenirs from places. Containers change with each occasion. A cellophane encased display of paper certificate.
Like a weasel in the clover. You tilt, toss, pop, turn over. Sit down. Tremble, weave like a moth. By flame deceived. Sit down. . Like a weasel in the clover.
There were women holding rosaries. On the day Manolete died. Teenage girls in soft white dresses. Standing silent peace respecting. . Groups of boys held in their hands.
Imitate that soured old song. . There is no individuality. Only guises. Shades of nonconformity. . There is no individuality. Selling vantage points. Low rate.
She borders the pavement, flanks avenues. Parades pass white glove attended by my mother the war. She'll raise a shaft, lift a banner, toss a rose. . My mother the war.
Lineage closed. Dissolved in its birth. Tragedy. Prelude a balance. . Is a synergy of reason. Malicious hope. As techno atrocities. Lapse their effects.