prose poetry

those on the top say they know you, earth-they are liars
out of the window a sea of green trees
if the red slayer think he slays
little park that i pass through
over the river, on the hill
the poets tell
in and of itself
from song and dream for ever gone
thou unrelenting past
up from the south at break of day
let us express our baser passions
the darkness steals the forms of all the queens
when night drifts along the streets of the city