I told the dark-haired girl to come down out of the apple tree and take her medicine. In a dream I told her so. We're going to have to do something about the night. The tissue won't restore itself in the dark. I feel safe only at noon. Waking. Out by the shed, their home, the Chicano cherry pickers sing hymns on a hot morning, three guitars and a concertina. We don't need dime-store surrealists buying objects to write about or all this up-against-the-wall nonsense in @3Art News@1. Even in the wilderness, in Hell Roaring Creek Basin, in this grizzly kingdom, I fear stepping into a hidden missile silo. My friend has become crippled, back wrenched into an "S" like my brain. We'll go to Judah to wait for the Apocalypse. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CELIA'S HOMECOMING by AGNES MARY F. ROBINSON LOVE LIES BLEEDING by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI SONNETS FOR PICTURES: A VENETIAN PASTORAL (BY GIOGIONE) by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI A BALLADE OF LAWN TENNIS by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS ON READING OF THE DEATH OF THOMAS WOLFE by MARION LOUISE BLISS VISTAS OF LABOR: 3. IN A SWEATSHOP by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON SONGS OF THE SEA CHILDREN: 93 by BLISS CARMAN |