It's not soul-suckery but a yearning
For beauty
That takes down all that's good
From the trees
Some say the almost true
Is the low-hanging fruit
But I know we only feel the love
With the world on fire
The homeless trumpeter
We never see
Plays "Millard Fillmore Days"
Like reveille
And I become the cormorant
Wary of the shot
The crimp across the pond
Between the man and song
