The Hourglass
At the edge of desert shore
Poured out of an hourglass
...
It was a sunlit autumn, dying
Foliage was not raked for days,
Bark was gnawn at, soup was tasteless,
Scarecrows had been lumbered away
...
Bookends almost adjoining, now
For all that's not of florid inditement,
Are words unwritten sulphurously
...