P. S. Burton
	Poem 11 Where the wind blows the leaves of trees The nesting bird lay hidden within the breeze To keep the woods from burning sun The timber burns still in the devils fun O Cassandra! A fate filled voice To only the blind From the fire to the ice the path is laid And the devils ransom is paid In the flooded city of Orleans The band is still a murmur of the river Come a see the bodies float Watch from screen a requiem of a dream. O Friends! Or those who wish I find you all shadows of the mist Invisible and opaque And Absinthe, that green glare glows From bottle to cup to stomach plows The liquid to the veins and to the brain And to the fingers and to the page. Are you friend or foe? I ask of you Tell me something I already know. To self-indulge in expensive drunkenness And cry of love far-far gone. And end the night in the vomit of repugnance.

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