(1)On Rogation Sunday in a field in KentThe flowing blessing is presently underway.And in a building too shy to hold a womanOf the blackest hair and an even blacker stareThe real sinner begs mercy for the whispered actsNot yet committed. And so she grotesquely hunchedDown the peloton of angles on one’s shoulders(2)Go fair lady, searching the desert now,For but a drop of water coming from your heart.Sepia words blow forth a dust bowl of their own,Sounded to the crispy crunch of yellowing leaves.While scarecrows create panegyrics to th’ nothingnessWhile a Parthenon of murder gawks at the sun,She walks alone, hand-in-hand like a baby lost.(3)For getting sucked into an empty roynish holeIn the midst of a field’s sensual rotationIs like wearing a gown picked by Russian-roulette.For “now” and “then” are but two chads strewn on the floorAnd she can read the emotions on a clock-face.Recall a town hall that votes on fresh opinionsWill negate the vote to vote in the summertime.(4)The cold hand of Old Man Time’s on a sapling’s neckAnd shivered shoulders are sold for the warmth o’ the selfWith only coins stamped for Charon and taxes leftTo send that from the starved lips of a thingummyQui’tly walking down this chilly old frog and toad.Now she’ll mix olios of rare design from a’ far.And let that elusive mercy return again.