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On The Porch With Pound These evening breezes forever quench The parched pain of a labor's day - Waves of soft moon-dyed mist Break purple on the rail, And the bubbles crest - Exploding in silence. Caress the salt-stained stigmata And open the weeping pores To the tranquility of a Long forgotten alien race. Transcend the swimmer Of a summer's night Who is drowned by the dawn Of registered time, And drink this froth of fog with me And toast the dew of Ezra's brow. |
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