YET NEARLY ON MY KNEES
O thing that in the cemetery sings, why
Did your eye often circle a Cuban cigar
Which flared in the hand of a man from Hartford?
The cemetery as almost a veil of peace,
But your deadly tale at most a flair of violins.
It seems a tail that apophanies pieces
Of things which certain eyes may have lost.
A bird sings, and what tale doesn’t veer off ?
As the cigar burns, the epiphany feels urned.
And any cemetery could be a vale of curtained eyes
As a key of this scale involves a curtain of fire.
O peacock that in the cemetery sings, is it Jazz
When your cry loves or leaves circles of something
Which whitens the cigars of men into ash?
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