During that final Indian summer of Keynesian Economics
The men with handlebar moustaches played cricket
Whilst I dived too deep searching for coins.
The Black Orchid swoons, beautiful but fragile.
The shell-shocked man loved it so much. Too much.
They thought they were kings, but on the continent
Blood was boiling in some Byzantine pot.
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There were things to fear, so I feared them.
Sound in the water pipes,
shadow near the coat rack,
blackbird outside my window
Pipe-creak like a frog growling.
Little sound. Little frog. Little shadow, little bird. Little girl. Little.
Not scared, frog, I tell him.