Cocks crow memories of gardens gone to concrete behind canted teak houses. Down alley at the ice shop the saw buzzes - a thousand cicadas - cold loaves to crystal slices. My ceiling fan spins languidly the last coolness of 4 AM into the thread of morning heat. Aun, mopping the hall, sings softly as her barefooted tread, into my sweet haze of sleep a wistful, chromatic song, which my alien ears insist narrates the halftones of love. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BOOK OF STONES AND LILIES by AMY LOWELL DR. SCUDDER'S CLINICAL LECTURE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: MRS. PURKAPILE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS TO A FRIEND WRITING ON CABARET DANCERS by EZRA POUND DOCTOR OF BILLIARDS by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON HENRY MOORE'S STATUE AT LINCOLN CENTER by KAREN SWENSON HYBRIDS OF WAR: A MORALITY POEM: 4. THE MORAL by KAREN SWENSON |