Friday, May 05, 2006


Like Passions

An August moon in morning hung
Fist high above the west.
In August blue the heavens sung,
But Earth was not at rest.
A whisper-wind, slight breeze had thrown
Dust into mind and doubt.
Bright day, bright skies alike were blown
And not a cloud was out.
The ground was dry beneath, and breath
As dry was all but dead.
His hands were crimson caked with death,
And Kishon, Sidon red.
Was his as theirs? Aside? Asleep?
Not true, he called Him blessed.
A cloud, with thunder dark and deep,
Fist size above the west.

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