At The Bell

Fling that thing to the Moon
That thing that’s ailing you
Red flags, white flags, too

It’s not a day too soon
Let’s leave crazy to loons
Whose flightiness consumes

Consider this day new
Its call goes out to you
To sing the champion’s tune

Fluent

Piece
After
Piece
I have thrown after hope
That day might be anew

Under the microscope
Through the telescope
Yet not to the naked eye
Indeed it has
It is

Crisp, though unbleached
Comfortable, too
With a new song
In a language
I will struggle to learn, I will