LORCA'S DEATH
A flight of black swans
Over the river
Of a book
Dark as blood roads
On grave guitars
His last face
Amap of fire,
burning up the sun
AUGUST 17 1997
O waste of summer evening in despair
The unknown bird at my obscure window
Sings, why should I care? why should I care?
And I cancur, and I concur.
Yet a moment later, when he has gone,
A streak of red with a golden afterglow,
I find I cannot sing his song alone.
My voice away with him has flown.
These words I write but do not sing
Nor do I light at any window.
Musicless I am a hapless thing
Going round and round a hopeless ring.
But it is not bird or lack of bird
That makes me feel so teribly hollow
Its that I know there is no word,
There is no word, there is no word.
ON LEAVING FOR VANCOUVER
So, we'll not walk
These streets again
Not now, nor the next year after
And we will not
Go hitching again
Not now, nor the next year after
To everything there is a season
and many times
The moment of departure
But sadness only comes
Because of joy, it is never
a serious threat to the heart
That endures whatever
Occurs, Before, now,
And the next year after
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