Thursday, November 17, 2011

Random acts of apostrphe

O Steam,

where hast thou gone?
I see from my windows
your hoarded dews ---
the chill echoes
against graded blues
of shadows wan.

Thy heats escaped,
and pressures fled,
now contemplate
whither to shed
in snowy spate
what wind hath raped.

But here, 'tis dry:
no urging force
advanced my course,
made whistles cry;
the work day's done,
now sets the Sun.


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