I KEEP MY BELLOW
IN MY BEDROLL
But never knowing why, I manage just to
travel on. Perhaps there's always been a
fire in my heart to rival any campsite with
its firepit a'smolder and its running flames.
-
Not necessarily calling you in, I nonetheless
relish your hand and your eye. There are things
a baker, or a plasterer, never knows; whose
eye is too much on the volume or the square.
The maiden of this house is twirling again.
-
Sleep fondly, yet stay awake? For the angels
and the swans who will come to save you?
I can hear yon trumpet sounding; its tone
bespeaks a mighty deliverance, yet my own
ears are tone-deaf to its endings. Assumptions
matter. These bricks will all fall away.
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