prose poetry

awful truths these be
let us pity those who are better off than we are
through the broad earth's aching breast
she limps with halting painful pace
i see all human wits
often i think of the beautiful town
in and of itself
afraid no more, i say
somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale
within this lowly grave a conqueror lies
daughter, thou art come to die
i am singing to you
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
brief on a flying night