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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