Isn'T It a Pity?
We take the mornings, soft
to the graveyard,
where dew lines the hedgerows
in duplicate pearls.
Patchwork backdrops and figures
lend a faint recognition;
these are my only memories
of my only love.
Meanwhile heroes bleed
for glory and riches-
to the death,
in books I haven’t read.
And as if
without a hundredth part of pity,
ours is a nightmare
too close to home.
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