The Hangman's Daughter Poem by James McLain

Wicked things not naughty, gone with the dawn
the gentle wind forgot to toss out.
To come back at the dusk of such having.

Heaven that much when it closely is,
most of them then
turn around sitting down as each looks thereupon.
Awhile the window open to the moon
when the crack in the glass all see through.

Really gone but still here when you are.
Locking eye's thereout cross the broken english duns
down by the sea
from where most of us did without thus knowing come.

Stories I tell two independent of one, one the truth
inside I can tell when both are the truth
but different from the telling of one, and of one,
and when your eyes the serving of two differnt master's
the other side of day, day as it turns back to you.
Some times the world in your head
was the world that most read
like you had in the books, most all have read.

The Hangman his daughter sees what his job is
when going to work as the daughter
did not as his job for all of these problems
When his job allows for the one and the all.
When a lot by accidental reflections see it call.
Anatomy 101 the neck stretched what comes out
after it snaps, necks pop like each
like a twig in the wind of each storm.
The rope when it's properly tied
From the balconies passing by open lips
night and day and you say you are no baby bodies.
Your and yes you are, you are, you're, own baby.
The Hangmang's daughter.