In This Grave Lies Alvin P. Smith, Not Yet Six Years of Age By John Doyle

A carnivorous wind greets your long-gone lips

which leave time behind,

so I'll clasp sound from stone

which speaks of things like German measles, rubella, stray bulls,

perhaps a bullet unfortunate not to make its target of soda pop bottles 

on fence posts instead

which look on railroad tracks that go to that city your brother

says he'll make his fortune in, 

now it's his turn to make mom and pop proud

Half man, half creature of very odd habit, John Doyle dabbles in poetry when other forms of alchemy and whatnot just don't meet his creative needs. From County Kildare in Ireland, he is (let's just politely say) closer to 50 than 21.