The tome is a time bomb

No longer an innocent conflagration

But a fully flowered concern.

And a certain violence


Has visited the domain.

The terrain trembles in terror.

We huddle like malign masses.

I call through the smoke


Of burning Autumn Leaves

To the world we built for children

But have run out of time to rectify.

So now let’s turn our attention


Away from our feet

Where they have always been,

Solidly on the ground,

And commence with spinning webs


Made from sugar

And hang them like bunting

On the 4th of July

While waiting for dinner to arrive.


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