I called you again, this morning <br /> <br />So that I might rise, hopeful, <br />as the sun, splashing, <br /> <br />Onto the tinted towns <br />and the bright vows of cities, <br /> <br />White-washed for new Fall semesters. <br /> <br />It is this anticipation; <br /> <br />This concusion of air; <br />a draft that draws us close <br /> <br />that says something good is approaching, <br />allowing me to jump, headlong, into the foam <br /> <br />and, coming up with a fish in my mouth, <br /> <br />Toss it back into the night, no the falling ash... <br /> <br />That seeps, like syrup, into our mouths, <br />smothering our moaning, limb-locked lust <br /> <br />and buries the world where it lay, <br />like the ashen falen of Pompeii <br /> <br />Who, in all one can ask, <br /> was in the exhultation of life as they died... <br /> <br />John Tansey 8/24/04<br /><br />John Tansey<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-ashen-fallen-of-pompeii/
