Pictures in Capitals
Punchcard rickety, the tram-clamor
of tiny feet in struggled shaping
to forbearing fathers runs over
as trench earth thought, turning about for
no recourse.
It takes the stormy motivation
to be something, someone, somewhere
but at this time only, to wake
again with thrice-brewed ashes,
again forlorn.
Still-life, you stand about single-brick
spaces, humdrum and humbling of
self; you bring new life about them,
bring memory to middle-brow
restaurant chairs.
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