1989 Southwest Tour Diary

the sprouting of birds atop trees means the passing of beauty

and the people all know their time is scarce


who’s drinking wine out of whose mouth


the lack of breath one might feel as they are lifted

as they float, so elegant,

between the chords of existence and the seraph


as the rings of Saturn begin to shift and crack


as if to tell the world

we are dying


a life well-lived deserves nothing more than a funeral

for what is a grave, if not littered with petals from wilting gifts?

what makes a river differ from another, if not the whitefish and crocodiles

that may or may not fly over the sand?


i can save this time for when you’ll be a pig, and

when i’ll be a spider

maybe someday the stars might align just right

to form this long hall of light,

one which you and i

and all the little children may bask beneath


the carpenter doesn’t always get to finish his chair,

nor the mechanic his car,

the playwright, his play, but still

someone may take the wheel

and finish what the other has left behind


i wonder if ever there was a kid

who had no desire to be an astronaut,

who had no desire to frolic along the planets,

who never looked at the moon and wondered

only for a moment?


not at all

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