Found Spam Poem: Philip Kane

Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!
How can they get the point of a world
with a hand freed from weight;
but when, on the timepieces that we call
and beyond, the same sound of bees
begins to matter?  For the flushed boys are muscular
in search of brighter green to come. No way!
Giddy as good kids playing hookey, now
that rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note.
But when, on the timepieces that we call
they move against, or through, or by, or toward,
sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form,
it is as though I were at a second threshold.
Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head.
Silence is in his hand, birds in a snare;
that square, watching calisthenics from the grandstands.
But snow has gathered there, has piled up,
through the back of the picture at the patch of white

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~ by londonsurrealistgroup on April 3, 2007.

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