Little - Poem by Tony Towle
a. by degrees
Which gives it over to our raging orders.
In the ground, planted,
my hands on you;
it was a time for it.
The waves turn out ashamed,
the voice but thought at the bus track,
in the ground, cool,
all of which I know.
To the alkali my oldest son is lost,
in the assault of fresh grass,
with the turn of a flower,
as our cousins by their tables,
the petals fallen on the seat.
We too are on the porch near the ground,
urged to follow closely
the red of the afternoon.
I will continue with your flower tight
in your hand, the deep slits
almost to center, a light breath
on the sound of the kettle, a thunder,
thunder, shells, the shaggy rangers
patrol the brush under the trees.
Something scuttles to the sea;
havoc is among our tables.
Our tables were styled near the ground,
arms folded, assisting a death
of surprise in the public treasure.
c. as love
We picked nails for the yard.
Salt. The towns of the river;
we pick at flowers as builders;
they are stealthy and have become more subtle.
So all laughed and provoked us to scrutiny.
The earth is chained and
will last for twelve years.
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