Poem for Franz Lizst

Who didn't like the smell of apples, 

& thought he could hear them weeping in their basket.

The blood cries of small things keep us half awake forever.

We may get our directions wrong when we open our eyes.

The cries were real Franz, but they were coming from under your house.  



Franz Lizst

Published by skuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University

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