echoes
land                                 moving
           somewhere
tied                                  to
              ­                                     morning mist.

morning,
                         she's
string


             that
  

                    nothing
is          two
                   bottles

of linen

               But, whiskey-----

I'm sick of hearing about drunken men
Slurring their thoughts out through the tips of their pens
And the history of poetry had been bleached as white
As the parchment on which their poems were printed