Untitled #13 Poem by Pierre Rausch

Whatever that may indicate
To mean it with credentials
Just to throw him out
Do you remain in explaining
From whom the descent might be
Ya, you could have done that
To entreat your forgiveness
Not really the elegant way
To think that not once
Within it's titanic proportion
The leaves on the clay
For the taste of hurry
How's the entourage?
The last job, don't be stupid
Remarked only what was
And gave everyone what they had in proportion
Seemed to like it everywhere
But at that time
Conducted very close
With the attendant depiction
A resonating grey
Punched in a number
And he'd cut all up
With those eyes to see
Greater delight in making
Go around and listen
Seemed to understand certain things
To believe the credential
For the sanding taste
The leaves that made entourage
Conducted in intervals
Walk around and receive
The first time in Delaware
But at these conditions
Your forgiveness to entreat