|        hair today, gone tomorrow
perhaps I'm at the age,
 when
 pricked and spurred
 by love alarums
 and spooked by
 horror stories in the light
of day
 it seems to me that more than
leaves
 are falling, falling, more
than tears
 fall from the faded eye.
 
        the edge of poetry will prickle
through the scalp, wing through
the flesh
 as we do read the edge of dread
 so bright and edgy in the business
 of the day, glance at a head
line
 read these words
 'a six year old with gonhorrea
is
 sent home to stay'
         then hair hang down
at horror's loneliness
 demand the ancient rule,
 the rite of grief,
 to tear out
 handfulls and with heavy
fist
 to beat on breast
 bereft
 of all the beat of poesie
 and modern mind of pride.
 
 
         Alice
Thorpe
copyright
 27 June, 1997
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