REVERENTIAL
MORNINGSIDE
MORNINGSIDE
Pestilence like the dove, the slow creep of
the mist off the river; sliding up the hill,
creeping to the doorway. I dreamed President
Buchanan was dying. Draped buntings in
rows where the military fingers had touched,
ready for anything; their sleek cars lined
the curb. I was lost in the smoke of that
dream - the idea of Time seeking its
very own cause came back to me.
-
How and why I entered the picture, I
never did know - was not privy to.
All to do was wince and consider.
So much time ago - a high north
country mountain where I lived.
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