SHINGLED twisted house,
ancient platters wispering
stone cold comfort, to
these walls,
is this anarchy,
or the quitting
bell,
SEAMLESS dark, and splintery
floors, take your abstract
ways, and turn on the lights,
is this anarchy,
or the quitting
bell, or the headlines of
a local newspaper.
DAVID GERARDINO
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/blood-hounds/
