This morning started with a death,Yours (and partly mine).After a sleepless night (for us both),The drone of your helpless spinning driftPierced like a pin picking at tight drums.I tried to airlift you to safetyWith a newspaper but you refused,A lack of trust between usProving to be your downfall.As I swung Buddha came to mindAnd I knew we were equals,Prone in the universeThough I had the size...

There is a nest of them rotting somewhere under                the Colosseum. Resident hornets come out                          sometimes in the summer, and they are furiousand they are starving. When it is sweltering               hot and the streets are lined with seventeen                         different versions of the same cart sellingCoke and lemonade to the tourist whose wallet       ...