Is It Poetry (1958 - / Bus-Boys And Poets, Washington D.C.)
Under the tree I wonder with the soft glow of moon my friend for lite, He sees in my comfort that the cuneiform from my hand stays flowing like the wine in my cup that's so cold.Bamboo creeks and groans from
rubbing together I have listened to since I was a child.
The lines on the paper are like the lines on my face long drawn out and cold.Warmth I would give to the soul yet my wine will carry me to the end.I will come back as the tree that I sit for and comfort you in all you say and do.The gnome in the village slipped and fell and is in heaven: It seems he lacked the grace to fly from the village bridge such is the way of folly.The fools we gladly suffer.
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