He killed his wife at night. He had tried once or twice in the daylight But she refused to die.
The bar he went inside was not A place he often visited; He welcomed anonymity; No one to switch inquisitive
And now another autumn morning finds meWith chalk dust on my sleeve and in my breath,Preoccupied with vague, habitual speculationOn the huge inevitability of death.
Yellow makes a play for green amongthe rows of some poor farmer's field outsidethe Memphis city limits' northern edge.A D. J. plays The Day He Wore My Crown,
In a wilderness, in some orchestral swingthrough trees, with a wind playing all the high notes,and the prospect of a string bass inside the wood,I, or someone like me, had a kind of vision.
For every bird there is this last migration;Once more the cooling year kindles her heart;With a warm passage to the summer stationLove pricks the course in lights across the chart.
Jill. Fred phoned. He can't make tonight.He said he'd call again, as soon as poss.I said (on your behalf) OK, no sweat.He said to tell you he was fine,
Ye shall hear of wars and rumors of wars;see that ye not be troubles;all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet-Matthew 24:6
Reading well is one of the great pleasures that solitude can afford you.-critic Harold Bloom, who first called slam poetry "the death of art.
ON a day--alack the day!-- Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair Playing in the wanton air:
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