Bret R. Crabrooke (04/10/1978 / Berrien Springs)

In this beautifully imprisoned tool
Now how do your echoes sound—
Since they've
Been practicing with a voice—
The joy of throats in the boxes collected
From off the playgrounds
As the school buses turn and turn
Around and around—
Now here is your joy,
And here is the part which can almost be
Perceived
Looking beautiful up in the echoes of the
Echoes of the playgrounds—
Well the angels play here anyways—
And you were once my beautiful teacher—
Now you are falling asleep in the daydreams—
Isn't it a troubling boredom into which they
Cannot recognize you—
And I love you—and I love—but just while
The echoes mention themselves to their trees.