Second Prize Winner
in a Beauty Contest—ugly
and local
as ever.
It's always
Five O'clock
somewhere—some
miserable lachrymose happy hour.
The name of the game
is Pageantry; ceremonial torches
clutched and waved
and hoisted high—identify Ambassadors.
Form exists
wild in nature; of whatever will burn
in fire, yet persist
in the embers of memory.
Rhythm consists
less of
sheer facts than the
regularity of their delivery.
As for Content,
beware: volition. A rose is a rose.
But a poem
might be—Poetry.
