Tuesday, January 5, 2021



poem by e.e.cane

Jan. 5, 2021

sitting awkwardly,

smelling the smoke

the dense burning

house timbers cracking

trees asunder

—the wailing death of dreams

time and again

welcoming innocence,

the child open to nature’s

call—the inward meeting—

looks up small and

knowing it

sees the faces of the

tall ones

moves quickly through

the forest of legs and


seeking the lily and


finding the ire of cynicism,

the swain of sarcasm—

a plebe’s resolution for a

war without it

the happenstance

of humanity’s fallen

the maelstrom


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