Malcolm Miller Poems

Malcolm Miller was a Salem poet. His main entry is Miller, Malcolm H.

Thanks to Rod Kessler, English professor Emeritus from Salem State we have some of his

Salem-Centric poems shown below.

Malcolm Miller’s Salem Poems –an incomplete compilation [13 February 2016]

Standing on the Salem-Beverly bridge gazing seawards at four in the morning March 1990

to the right the final

part of Salem shines

with spaced lights curving

towards the end

of our power

to the left Beverly

like a finger lit

by many gold

rings points

towards some union

out beyond

our marriages

out where only dark

bigger than all our lights

seem to call

I am going

I am going

will I see

will I see

you there?

[INTO THE HIGHER AIR, 1992, 72 pages, p.8]

Witch Trials Salem Mass. 1692

the trees were stark

to begin with

and the choppy sea

often grey and cold

Indians had strange

ways and eyes

their arrows could travel

a long way and accurately

far off the English king

could not be relied on

rumors spoke of changes

not to their advantage

order is always maintained

by a form of no

the haunches of women even young

shake fire in the thatched-roof cabins

fire is a dangerous element

and a moral god insufficient

there are always reasons to kill

many wished for more than twenty

[INTO THE HIGHER AIR, 1992, 72 pages, p.33]

A clean Well Lighted Place In Winter

it’s 3 in the morning

the fatal lapsed hour

I am the sole

customer here

in this Dunkin Donut on

the coast of Massachusetts

the coffee is all right

the donut not bad

the music being offered

only fair

and behind the counter

the young woman

who quit high school

out of boredom

is yawning

a mute kind

of weary-eyed goddess

but a goddess none the less

in this god

blessedly open place

or don’t you know

don’t you know yet

about closed up towns

in cold dark times

[FURTHER AND FURTHER POEMS (1992), 72 pages, p.65]

ZONE 3

I used to buy a ticket

from Boston that said

to Salem Mass

now it says

to Zone 3

I used to have moments

of joy now I have

no problems

I used to be free and easy

now I am acceptable

and do the right

thing for

the situation

I used to be loyal

to something I could not

define now I am

a good citizen

[FURTHER AND FURTHER POEMS (1992), 72 pages, p.16]

State College Canteen

on his last day of work the guy

by some quirk of inspiration

profit or satire

loaded the huge soft

drink machines with beer

the price was right and the day

spring-like

never have students learned more

about religion

Dionysius was dancing in the halls

and singing in the corridors

never did the philosophy professor

a master of logical positivism

seem more absurd

his much praised sobriety was found

to be a sort

of living death and all the English

instructors by afternoon were being

booed from the building

for not knowing how to teach

young people how to return

to the sun

[POEMS THAT NEED YOU (1993) p.41]

there is a sign in a bar in my

home town that is like modern life

do not hesitate to ask for credit

it says

our way of saying no is very polite

[Unsatisfactory Fragments of Lukewarm Fire, (Jan. 2004) p. 57]

College Girl in Massachusetts

in the winter dawn a girl bound

for history class sure

footed and neat with

the grace of morning

her face almost fresh as

recent snow the night’s

full twinkling moon over

Salem harbor

college girl bearing your proud

unchallenged face towards

the necessary war of all

the living I go

with you

I go with you clear-eyed sprite

your earnest brow of morning

even over here I feel

your unique breathing

the privateness of your being

descended from trees and birds

and from darkness kind

to all its stars

I go with you lovely scholar

and may you find on

your way however

buried the gold

of unteachable joy

[The Taste of Inexplicable Nothingness, 1994]

HAWTHORNE

Nathaniel Hawthorne you never went

to a brothel

drank but not to excess

were not athletic and agile but sat

your large domed skull hid

subtle and at times sinister thoughts

you married one of Salem’s Peabody sisters

and never committed adultery

at dusk in Salem after Bowdoin

you went walking in dark heavy clothing

your face impossible to read

and children were fearful

your sunless body did not discover god

what pleased you you enjoyed but life

was at bottom a sort of wretched thing

lightened by family and comfort

Melville your temporary friend by far

was a holier more extraordinary spirit

his work outlives yours but still

the best hotel in Salem is the Hotel Hawthorne

in it one can eat the Scarlet Letter lunch

the menu boasts sinfully unpuritan desserts

a huge statue of you looms on Hawthorne Boulevard

nobody around here notices it much

midwestern schoolteachers snap your photo

busloads of them file through the streets

the House of Seven Gables is a must

making the city a lot of do re mi

talent you had and intelligence to spare

what was lacking was lacking almost fatally

[THE TASTE OF INEXPLICABLE NOURISHMENT ( 1994), p.10]

good night Irene

I have a cousin

Irene

she often stands downtown with

a severe condemnatory look

as if the world

has disappointed her

she doesn’t know who

Walt Whitman is

if she did

he could be in

for a real good

talking to

Jesus Suspended In Stone From the St Joseph Church Salem Mass

Son of a distant desert people

what are you doing up there

hanging like some penance

or warning of what can happen

if you speak well and directly

and don’t flatter the top dogs

your body hangs huge

as a statue from Easter Island

a continual embarrassment if noticed

a terrible mistake like Stalin

in Red Square kept alive

by technological skills

and a lot of money

you seem hooked up to a sort

of pillory by puritans or sadists

what did you do anyway

and how weary you must be all

these centuries hanging there

gaped at by foreigners who

can’t really tell why

they keep you on view

as they go about earning more TV

channels and winter trips to Florida

you’re more or less like a prisoner

captured in a war who just got

lost in the shuffle and never

made it back

to your own people

[THE TASTE OF INEXPLICABLE NOURISHMENT (1994), p.33]

at the campus of one of the lesser

state colleges in Massachusetts

a disgusting perhaps degenerate

professor is eyeing the tan

new bodies of poor

quality students

most hardly made it out

of high school and many so

unscholarly will fail in

a year departing on these long fitness

crazed legs he ogles and wants

wrapped around him

a disgusting professor is eyeing

some of the greatest bodies in

history that will not be able

to cope with Shakespeare or calculus

Kierkegaard and even Picasso

might seems European rock bands to them

the disgusting degenerate prof

is eyeing them

hips sinuous with strength and

beauty the gods would rock with

may they live forever the poor

quality students with miserable

IQ’s and long shining rich

hair in the wind their skins of

magical entrancement and their

fine shaped skulls that do not

bother with history or ethics

or expository prose

the disgusting professor is eyeing

them day after day

he is paid 34,000 per annum and

worth every penny

[THE TASTE OF INEXPLICABLE NOURISHMENT (1994), p.56]

BEFORE SUNRISE DUCKS SALEM HARBOR WINTER

part of black

water and still

darkness in air

the eerie normal

cluck as you pass

they hug shore

vague neat clumps

sealed in

who they are

yes but who

are they

[THE RIVER OF MUDDIED WATER BEARS GOLD (1994), p.36]

SALEM HARBOR

the great sailing

vessels that used to reek

of mid

ocean brine and china

spices and teas

strong black pepper born

in Java split mahogany

trees to adorn

and enrich Massachusetts

who remembers them now but

museums full of

paid customers

some tame pets of pleasure

cruisers litter

the harbor flushing their god

damned toilets casting

garbage ashore cruddy

with bacteria

too many mediocre

spirits have hung about

these streets too

many generations for

anything but humdrum

to happen

a handful of intelligent

people are going about

their business suspected

of whatever crime is

in the air

[THE RIVER OF MUDDIED WATER BEARS GOLD (1994), p.51]

TOURISTS

what have they come to see

so many hundreds of miles slowly

across droning repetitious highways

and inching traffic jams

steering evenly up to gasoline pumps

children smashing each other

with kleenex boxes in the back seat

and to end up dressed undistinguishedly

in some inferior hotel with water

that barely goes down the basin

finding a twisted cigarette

butt and a condom in the drawer

later to trudge after a row of arrows

to gawk at a museum where cruel

people once killed harmless women

and the kids proudly wearing t

shirts with the city’s name

rooked for too much money by smiling faces

the universal ice cream cones

jammed towards their mouths in exotic flavors

evenings wondering what to do next

missing home and the reassurance of custom

a kind of ordeal has them in its grip

days to go and almost every hour

money ebbs out of them like blood

from a wound

and the newness of the never seen

shining at times like something dreamed once

they don’t always like

to wonder about again

having come so far to find

what is not really here anymore

or perhaps anywhere

[THE GOOD RAIN OF CANADA 1994, 72 pages p.46

SANDLOT BASEBALL

nobody had any money to speak

of and nobody had any jobs

nobody had any heartache or cancer

nobody ever saw such good baseball

nobody knew what time the game began

god was the umpire god the rain

that stopped it and god

the dust of the basepaths

non-artificial reality grass green

as if the sea overflowed and firm

with the right stuff of earth

white ball white ball you are but a dream

we played with a ball taped

black as tar and sticky and not

altogether proper and round

even Babe Ruth could not hit a home run

but the Boston Red Sox did not hear

more angels than we in the darkening sky

the ball lost in twilight still

joyous we did not dream the white ball dream

[THE GOOD RAIN OF CANADA (1994), p.23]

my mother has to go to the rehab hospital

I come to her old place

to pick up a few things

mail and the like and out

the window see

in the park under

the low hanging shade

trees a woman sitting

in a chair right where mother

used to sit

from this angle and distance it almost

is mother

but she will never sit under

the summer trees again

she is lying in the red

brick rehabilitation hospital

like a doll in its crib

she will never sit under

the summer trees again and the only

hope now is she

doesn’t know it

[The Good Rain of Canada (1994) p.35]

I evolve in silence

on a cold sunlit Thursday having

paid my rent in a hotel

named after a revolutionary hero

I go to bed at noon

in my large

white 2 windowed high

ceilinged room as the radio predicts

accurately winds of 60 miles an hour and more

already the great panes are shaking

the white curtains fill with sun

from millions of miles away

gold splashes on the white walls

I lie in bed on pillows

mute and deathless with attention

the panes of glass shake and boom

like opera singers

outside the wind gusts take

over the town and I stare

at the all blue sky filled to capacity

with bright romping air

nobody in the world is very far away

I evolve in silence

why we are here

always like this with no newspapers

with no thought of food and friends

with no loneliness for

a woman this would not interest

[I Who Am True To You (March 1996), p. 57; MM lived in the Lafayette Hotel]

I Find Myself

I find myself wondering what

became of a dog I used to

see in the early morning inspecting

the neighborhood by the tidal inlet

you know where the tide comes in

over the mudflats and the bulrushes

stir even in seeming no wind

have you seen the dog mostly

brown with long ears

what is he doing these days

what about the small hill he would sit

upon as if surveying his kingdom

if you see the dog or hear

about him would you let me know

he has a white spot on his chest

and goes along with a lope sometimes

[I Who Am True To You, March 1996), p. 66]

THE GUEST

with nowhere to live I camp

out in libraries

books in huge even rows

are strangely silently tolerant

none of the great Russian novelists

care if I hobo by them

only a few English writers would

advise me to clean up my act

and I won’t

mention their names what for?

For a few days now I have been

the guest of the poets

in a state college library

I arrive at early morning opening

trying to look scholarly

I stay until midnight closing hoping no

one officiously eyeing me

narrowly states the case

“you aren’t a student here are you…”

for a few days more I will be

a guest of certain great spirits

whose living testimony sings

out in pages of books

books mostly unopened

[poems (1996) p. 56]

My Uncle Jack’s Pub in Salem Mass

when my uncle Jack opened the back

door of his pub I was

admitted to the world

of whisky and dark polished wood

panelled walls upon which Jack

Dempsey and Joe Louis ruled

with a perfection of classic

American mayhem

seated on a stool near men I had

only to call

out for a tall glass of beer

like ginger ale to join the dim

tribal conspiracy against vacuum

cleaners and laundry detergents

dishwashing and the telephone’s

trinket like gossip

here the measure more largely

held in the tilt of a cap

like a wink and the splurge

of coin and crisp

here almost a quiet dignity maintained

the mystery of malt that “does

more than Milton can to justify

god’s way to man”

biting into a free bowl

of pretzels at 12 years old listening

to the deep loom of voices

where schoolteachers and local goody

goodies and their fussy minions were not

apt to venture I called

out for more

Uncle Jack filled my glass again

on the dark wood panelled walls the baleful

watchful stare of Joe

Louis held sway

Jack Dempsey was almost laughing

with animal joy

[I Am Writing This For You (March 1997), pp. 12-13]

CLOSING DOORS

Walt Whitman is shouting from the third floor

stacks for god’s sake do not

bar the door

throw open the windows

but because of 2.4 inches

of snow and a wind of some

miles an hour they are closing

the state college library at noon

the word has just been megaphoned

as at a disaster

as if yes run run

run for your life

put down that book of poems and run

away into the where

Henry David Thoreau is tussling

with one of the librarians for he will

not leave but commit

an act of civil disobedience

Mark Twain is yelping with glee

Robert Frost has one foot

in the door they cannot close

the security police are telephoned to rush

forward to judgement

the library director red-faced

with fear of his car getting stuck

begs the students

of life to desist and leave

he almost offers money

because the snow is falling somewhat

in eastern Massachusetts

and the state college at Salem

has been bewitched

into fear and trembling

[I Am Writing This For You (March 1997), p. 48]

  despair of a minor poet

thinking of the great

poets of history I settle

down under a tree by Salem

harbor to write my own

great poem

nothing happens

my pen shipped all

the way from Japan just

dangles there

in museless air

the hand holding it

could be a pen

holder

I gaze at the ocean blue

thanks to the sky

I hear the maritime ancient

cry of countless gulls

thanks to ears composed

it is said of dust

I look far out upon

the waters until there is

nothing and I am also

such a void

I seek the breath

of a god to be filled

that does

not come

[what light is left (Sept. 1997), p. 25]

around that corner

around that corner

on Chestnut Street someone

has flowers annually

in the yard

there are over 80

people on the street

someone without flowers has the flowers

in view from a window

someone on Chestnut

Street has a fireplace

someone has moments at

night that would surprise you

someone else has such

a yesterday

someone on the street is hardly

ever wet from rain

around that corner

on Chestnut Street

someone has four children

someone has four walls

someone has a Labrador

retriever with four paws

someone on that street

has quite a hope

the last one did

not work out

nobody is dying on Chestnut

Street yet

nobody is giving

birth to poems or music

nobody is wanted by the police

on Chestnut Street around the corner only

2 or 3 know the score

of the ball game just

about over

[what light is left (Sept. 1997), p. 33]

years of the pears

late summer evenings

like early fall

pushing the boat off

grating smoothly on sand

water-bound as pirates

the local vikings from

our fiord for booty

across the harbor with two

pair of oars plunged

in cold clear water to Marble

head now breaking the dusk here

and there with bright

human outcry

4 or 5 boys to end

up in delectable pear trees

the orchard at its crux

the raid boat waiting half

out of water

on the dark foreign shore

to stuff plucked pears

in our pockets before

quiet dropping like cats

to terra firma but this

time the orchard man got

a whiff of us

half hobbling out with flash

light the size of a club

the white radiance casting

our faces as on police

wanted lists as we ran

for it our 12 year old

legs he was no match for

“I know who you are!”

he called still coming

all the way down to

the shore we pushed off like devil

island escapees rowing for life

“I’ll get you!” he called over

the waves into the dark

we double-oared for home

bodies beating with blood

and delectable pear joy

joy like we had robbed

the very stars of their light

taken the measure of

mountainous sized seas

behind us flashing the torch

with futile hollers a man cursed our

hijinks our dusky blasphemous god

[what light is left (1997), pp. 44-45]

sunday on the north shore

dads romping successfully

on expensive bikes with daughters

and sons as mom well

protected in sun tan

oil and helmet churns

rhythmically along also

along smoothly contoured former railroad

beds the flat earth that once

shook with pounding iron giants

smoke steaming monsters leads to

goodies at the convenience store

the squirrels and birds do not know

the suburban whir and whiz of bike

tires means Sunday

the clicking sound tells gears

have switched

green trees speckle and shade

Sunday is a good time late

morning peace in the fine

summer on the North

Shore of Boston not tremendously far

from where Thoreau determined

to go it alone with whatever god

turned out

to be

and Nathaniel Hawthorne deliberate

and heavy browed pondered

the Salem Witch Trials

his ancestor a judge and pondered

again and spoke

with a silence that would not yield

to gentle tones the dark

coming of something dark

[what light is left (1997), p. 63]

Down in the valley with Delores Cormier

she sang as if she sang

to live

Delores Cormier down

there in the valley

the valley so low

late in the evening

you know what happens then

Delores in the school house

in the 7th in the 8th in the 9th grade

Dolores in her special blue

luminous party dress

not very tall shapely already

bursting forth

bursting like music from the whole

orchestra of creation

like wind in the trees or spring

rivers driven by natural law

Dolores Cormier down in the valley year after year

a jet of yearning that had not yet

accepted the limits

in her luminous blue dress singing

singing so as to really be there

we were all just beginning to live

at all the school parties at holy snow

Christmas and last school day flowering

with June we would await her arrival

in her uncle’s car in her special

blue dress she held up away

from the puddles and mud

carefully like an expectant bride

down in the valley the valley so low

hear Dolores

hear that train blow love hear it

for it is Dolores come to sing her face

enclosed in purposeful solemn

her voice rising from somewhere

like a declaration of something

we were ready for something

more than parents or teachers could say

she had come to tell us everything

she had ever felt and believed

like the penetrating concentrated haunting

outcry of an oboe she throbbed

through our classrooms year after year

down in the valley love

deep in the evening

it’s an old American classic or something

probably you have heard it

we were all just on the verge

of life she was singing

and singing about

and so many years later though

not that very many I suppose in downtown

Salem in a shabby rooming house

where anything goes

in a week by week rented room Dolores

lay dying

bride of death at about age 40

jets of blood pouring out so many

knife wounds they stopped counting

it was Dolores Cormier of Miss Turbett’s class

the blood didn’t stop as if eager to flow

like an endless terrible song

they didn’t mention in the Salem Evening News

already the courts had taken

her children away

she was an alcoholic deemed unworthy parent

and suspected of drugs and prostitution

Dolores Cormier of the Saltonstall School

dead of viciousness and spurned sex

dead of bad companionship

dead of whatever she died of

deep in the evening she lay still

[what light is left, 1997, pp. 70-72]

Return

you return to the park

where you played as a youth

under your feet the half

frozen ground crunches making

you conspicuous though

no one is there

you would not say the thoughts

and feelings that rise in you

along the sandy cove gulls sit

on calm water as you turn

over with your foot

what the tide has brought in

the mid afternoon sunlight makes

a pale yellow cast to the air

it would be almost vulgar to say what you feel

a brown dog is walking

on a leash as around it so much

space seems wasted

[from Amazing Stranger,1998, p. 49]

The Sad Girl Who Sells Gasoline

the merit gas station on north

street in salem mass open

day and night in the dark hours

has a sad girl sitting

and waiting for you to come

drivers who drive in a 2 a.m. see

her sorrows as she sits

alone in her glass cage awaiting dawn

when she will rise and walk

away from so much gasoline

if you drive by wave at the sad girl

will you and smile as though yes

life is good it’s all right

and if you need to fill your tank stop

there and tell her the gasoline is marvelous

[From a powerful kingdom of yes, 1999]

I am going to say goodbye

I am going to say goodbye to this city

where every streetcorner has begun to annoy me

even the handsome trees no longer

seem created by god

only the handsome women yet spark

my veins with magical red

and there are not so many

do you hear not so many

I am going to go to another city

where every streetcorner will annoy me more freshly

where my anger at crowds full of folly

will seethe and sparkle with new vitality

and for a while as in the days

of my youth I can even

consider myself a great poet

intelligent people read with amazement

[The Holy City Within (Jan. 2001) p. 8]

Coyotes At The Edge Of Town

a rumor has arisen there are

coyotes at the edge of town

coyote-faced with yellow grey

matted fur they prowl

in bands of 4 to 7

they can cover 40 miles

in a single night someone said

though there are no coyotes here

in Massachusetts everyone is talking

about their arrival

how they probe and slink

out of the dusk

deadly hunters they make the most

of any habitat

the newspaper headlines wonder if now

is the time to call out the national guard

in behalf of children and domestic animals

several other sightings

are being reported

coyotes spotted out by the power station

and the water reservoir

someone ran as fast as he could

someone is carrying a hand gun everywhere

some people only go out in organized groups

a neighboring town is asking what

measures are being taken

I do not go out in the dark anymore myself

though I know there are no coyotes

[I Have Wasted My Life So Beautifully (June 2001) p. 10; also in Final poems (2004); see “Howl” in so what 2008), p. 12, and “In My Town” in Poems(2012), p. 3]

Salem Harbor

in the dead of night I spot

white as white can be

on the black typical water

swan amazing as stars

mysterious there in ancient formation

upon the waters high and dry

slow moving as an emperor who

abides by divine right

aloof and riding high in the dead

of night a great white kingdom

in the dead of night when I know

silence such as day cannot

not so far off just out there

upon dark waters we hardly remember

out of range almost of our mere business

beyond the words we yoke to things

not needing our obvious meanings

not needing our instruction or praise

but I will not trouble long with gaze

such whiteness and poise that keeps me well

[I Have Sent A Message To The King (Dec. 2001), p. 7]

The Brazilian Girl

The very dark haired Brazilian girl

who works at the Dunkin Donut

on Canal Street in Salem

has come in this morning with her hair

loosed like a dark waterfall

at the source of the river of life

her tall white body strides to

and fro behind the counter equal

to a fine sleek horse incited by

the New England cold

she has scored a tremendous triumph

today with my glands and muscles and bones

that will remember her a long time though

she doesn’t know it

she doesn’t know at this very instant the blood

making its way through me

is shouting her name in scarlet and gold

though I don’t know her name

[Now (Feb. 2003), p. 27; MM had “Brazillian”; ]

William Buckley letter carrier R.I.P.'

40 years a letter carrier

in Salem Mass William Buckley

carried the mail in snow and sun

in a kangaroo leather bag

year after year his mother gave

the day he started out

William Buckley pace by pace

on his shoulder what added up

to tons of stamped enveloped stuff

through the streets of his hometown

William Buckley lugged and trod

aimed at mail boxes slots and dogs

how his blue Irish eyes would stare

into your eyes without wavering

this bag has sent 3 kids to college

he would say who is dead today

[Now (Feb. 2003), p. 45]

Late At Night

late at night in your home town

you play your trump cards

at 2 a.m. you close your door

on who they think you are

and wander the streets

by their darkened homes

you are the last watch under the stars

at the end of time

[No More Death (2006),p. 8]

College

the state college is deserted

around xmas

they have gone home by

the thousands to a green

tree that is doomed

strange how the long hallways and corridors

without anything happening

the empty classrooms with disembodied seats

seem to echo something

better than an education

[No More Death (2006), p. 10]

poem

I camp out on a small wall close

to the state college here

my attention directed to serious study

of the hips and legs

of the many many young women students

there’s that old creep again one blonde says

they should do something

about him another book-laden

beauty exclaims shooting me

a dirty look

I am far from being insulted

or discouraged by these discourtesies

at my age you take what

you can get quite glad

to be part of the proceedings

[mere happiness (Sept. 2006) p. 71]

New England

they come to the hotel here

from ohio and south

carolina and go

where they are told

by tourist guides

they agree to like

what they see

in the evening they telephone

their children who do not

really know

who they are

[so what (Dec. 2007) p. 32]

poem

I am going to die in Salem

on a brilliant sunlit day

in october with the gold

and red leaves in abundance

I am not going to die of disease

I am going to die of life

I am going to die in Salem

without benefit of family or clergy

without great belief in humanity and progress

but with the sunlight leaping

forth from the sky

I am going to die amid the splendor of things

[overdue angels (2008 or 09) p. 16]

home town

none of the police

in the entire history

of Salem Mass has ever

read a good poem

not a single mailman

or fireman knows who

Paul Cezanne is

the effective problem

solving mayor has little need

for the actual

truth of things

[overdue angels (2008 or 09), p. 52; Salem’s mayor at the time was Kim Driscoll]

steve

there’s a guy named steve

runs a market downtown

has for 38 years

any weather steve

is standing there inside

steve doesn’t say much

but he stands there

people who don’t even shop

at steve’s market pass

and say there’s steve

somehow his presence

means something fundamental

to the town

it’s almost magical

it almost makes no sense

[God Is Born (2010) p. 30; Steve’s Quality Market at 36 Margin Street in Salem was rebuilt and expanded in 1060]

Salem Ma

tourists arrive from all

over the country

they are not to blame

for their boredom

they go obediently from one

historic site to another

they are not to blame

for nothing interesting to see

any more than for the sudden drizzle

they often sit at outdoor restaurants

they are not to blame for their

efforts at seeming enthusiastic

[if there was a heaven (July 2010), p. 50]

burial grounds

the old burial ground in old Salem

is filled with sinkholes and cobwebs

fumbling tourists photograph

the 1721 tomb stone

of one Ebenezer T Jones

reverend who liked

to push people around

and call it god

[The White Hours, 2010, p.21]

 

==See Also==

Vertical File in Salem Collection : Miller, Malcolm