S e v e n

Seven is a number
pretty perfect if you ask me

pine trees way out there

how's the snow, won't you know?
there's a little dog
and two ladies so old
they went through a bog
and shivered with cold

out there on the island
limp rocks made of grain-sand
make way through the pity
and regrets of the city

but with the tremulous hands
of all marching bands
trumpets
limpets
hornets
and castanets

are all one
like this pun.

g, it seems weird to have you here. after almost a year.