As no Poem to be Written will be Spared
everything comes naked to the wire
the horror is everywhere apparent
yet Peace will prevail for the hour
nears, it approaches at will and bows down
to be broached by the absence of manners
nothing that was written held any sense.
It holds me within a concave sonnet
as Music comes rolling along it rolls
neverending substance of alto trombone
Play me a song of my diffident tone
Help me to hear myself I am muteness.
But Leave me don’t approach in the Nearness.
For no Lack of War I have done Thisness.
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