Peter Richards

I was so hungry sitting in the rain's well.

My smock was food for the rain but not for me.

The flecks that had dried there were also soon eating one another-- a fleck from the cannon- flecks from the ship.

 People passing this way, well above me passing, but so too in a while looking down to see if they can see me, to say if I'm still there.

I'm still here is no bother crying out. I'm still hungry, but less than I said before.


We know they seem to say while wadding those potato blossums into wads and snuffing those last two stars I could hardly even see.




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