by Frank C. Praeger

Mustn't it be dimly lit, the trash-filled halls,  

evening's uneventful sky;  

mustn't it be a limitless effort with none exorcized  

and for those furious contrition in the fields of grace,  

momentarily,  emblematic, and, then, hunkering down,   

trying to be avoided.  

Tellingly incognito, fettered til distorted   

a carnage of sparrows, of ex-compatriots   

superimposed with burdock, cloves,  

thistle and clods of earth;   

events retried,   

doubted;  

facts, just that; the grey of the just past.  

A message not sent, others reprised,  

as much as that shortage of finales,   

a latter-day grieving resorbed,  

something that could have been said that was gorgeous.  

I am nowhere nearer, nowhere farther;  

a charade for some,  

magic to others.