Email Poem

Your IP Address: 216.73.216.98

From Email:	Required Email Address Not Valid.
To Email:	Email Address Not Valid. Required
Subject	Required
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem	It must have been in March the rug wore through. Now the day passes and I stare At warped pine boards my father's father nailed, At the twisted grain. Exposed, where emptiness allows, Are the wormholes of eighty years; four generations' shoes Stumble and scrape and fall To the floor my father stained, The new blood streaming from his head. The drift Of autumn fires and a century's cigars, that gun's Magnanimous and brutal smoke, endure. In March the rug was ragged as the past. The thread rots like the lives we fasten on. Now it is August, And the floor is blank, worn smooth, And, for my life, imperishable.
	Type the characters you see in the picture Required