Morning Taps

By , Franklin, MA
Ye brassy bugle,
Thy harmonious hymn,
Such a moan you mouth
like a wounded warrior
or a gambling gust
outside a tiny house

Ye sacred soundings,
Thy vivid vibrations,
Such a note you knead
like batter for baking
or scars for soothing,
scars caused by a good deed

Ye dreary dwindling
Thy hovering hues
Such a finale you perform
like a princess posing
or a woman weeping
at the sight of her son's uniform





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