The Row
`
There is maybe
in each burst of
energy, a product
of fanaticism filling
the air or the cities
when the limbs
of trees hail the
soldiers to the war.
Perhaps in each
bellow the burst
of energy produces
fanatic followers.
Perhaps in each
gust the rush of
wind uproots all
modicum of calm.
Perhaps in each
caterwaul the limbs
of protest raises
interjective receipt.
Each is a product
maybe without
hope of reprieve:
alone in time; Perhaps.
`
poem by Frederick Kesner
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