this little word is like a rusty anchor

The experienced masses
know how the glut shortens reasoning,
that acroamatic emblem whose presage
parallels into trifling nonsense.

Perhaps one cannot thwart incursion of the present.
Nor do I suppose can anyone know the years
on gracious terms, in truly adult precepts
busying the memory of greater sadness’.

What ends the word and our musings, which
are, as we often drink in, yellow little apologues
of exposure, whom the charlatan favors
abandoned with hate and colder riddles.

Letters of feeble once-in-a-whiles that only one
or two scribblers at a time can chew. And drab
illusions fume at the tips of their ashen smoked
lives which, rashly enough, begin to turn away.

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