Ah, long have I striven to capture for the
after-ages the soul of those
apocalyptic visions that transcend
awe and incinerate disbelief!
A plague on the trickster muse who sends
aardvarks barging into
any poem I write.
Xanthippe, Socrates' notoriously
xiphoglossal wife, was wont to call her husband a
xenombobulater, offspring of a
xeme and a red-necked nightjar.
If you have any comments on these poems, Esther Murer would be
pleased to hear from you.