By Alfred corn
They'd started meeting by night at the only local, A seething crowd drawn from among the loudest Words, swearing, conspiring, over tankards of ale. In sour chiaroscuro their clenched faces by moments Looked too grievance or was it expressive for comfort.
Rage drowns out background sounds such as summer Crickets, the result, that one of them, in humid Darkness, stops rasping his metal comb. It's clear That the rally of Words will turn demonic, That before night ends they'll be up in arms.
Even the rawest learner can in a clock tick Become aware of the name it's called by. Which He tries on Cricket Cricket till he thinks: Your name Amounts to a sound, nothing more. Trundling on Towards the defiant Words, he says, No. No, I Am Deuce.
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