Driven

Tuesday, June 22, 1999

four skies of liquid grain

fall upon the soldered earth

on top of speakers dripping rain

and holding back their merry mirth

//

poor rain falls up shards of glass

rising, dropping forming on bows

and like the gold bathed on the mass

finds frozen drops hailing their foes

//

tour fabrics douse the crowd's fear

with remains of crates and crushed seeds

upon the mouths of a broken tear

falls the knell of forgotten needs

//