Classic Poem

Come with me and amble over the briars
into the fog. It rests a flurry by the slide
to make-b'lieve measure, harmless in the way
a doormat lay, fifty more bestride. The lovers
in their Louvre make no more sound than
this, spoken in announcement breaks
lids with iron fists. I never met
a dormouse, never sailed to Nice,
but just one time I'd like to know
who took the keys that fit.











Used by permission of the author.