Tuesday, January 19, 2010


VINCENT L. Edgar Otto 01-18-10

The gray lady takes shape in the foggy distance
hopes rise from the sea breeze

Millions for defense but not one soul abandoned to
night's tribute, invariant our human gratitude

So we rejoice in children lost then returned, for what little's left
of miracles, no rain of lead or prison for the faceless refugees

Are we almost there, we imperfect prophets trying
to explain sheep huddled into strands, communities?

The barred pinwheels reduced by clumps of dark dreams
tribes and states struggle down to chaos for the scarce source

Will we be left in cloud sinking vapors of troubles,
bubbles only the outside sun can raise again?

Dispersed drops of Mercury, not measurable its perihelion procession
egg beaters not feared but welcomed that delivered Vincent

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