Distant Trumpets

Long shadows lie across the garden, only fools would say they’re real; they, the fools, rely on newspaper reports, to understand the world Long fools lie across the garden, Their short shadows shimmer near the shade; this kills them: the wary shade. Long newspapers, the kind the rich read, lie across the fetid street: reality, that cunning vixen, stalks the unwary; the unwary lie in the shadows. And the fox licks its chops