Bulbs

Many journalists, and not many friends

Around the encumbered tomb

Around the brilliant panoply

Beneath the dreadful moon

Many shattered bulbs, and men

Attend sepulchral cues

And when sepulchral rings the wind

The scattered glass will move

The motorcade and all its kin

Away from nascent mound

Will glide along like rivers

Like the dew upon the ground

Recent Posts

The thought process, Worn like a Wampanoag belt, Felt stiff, at times, and, at times, Mighty proud– what A thing ‘a beauty. What, it’s...

A young bird found out an Old bird and said, excitedly, “Old bird, did you realize that the Sky we sail is not empty but Full? Did you...

I could not be Otherwise if I walked To the furthest wharf And threw myself in To where the soft Surround of painted dusk Evinces a...