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