One remembers hysterical laughter
a summer night, when no one was happy.
Sam, come from the town, come the fire
consumes you, the trees are ablaze, the church
the money
is burning, any old photo
will prove it so.
The guernseys, the holsteins,
brahma bulls screaming in terror!
(Cold, ice cold sauternes
through all the whisky
fog, the dawn near.
Sam, the town is burning,
your Byronic scarf
will not save you. Here, phlox is not
the decorative flower,
come from the town Sam, you are
burning. I call you Sam to
come, gazing at the photo where you stand
while all around you rages
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