The melancholy is there alright
But real unreal in sense of simple
Thinking wrong right turn?
Who knows?

Some future state of economic social
******* that leaves all free to breathe
With sun and joyful rain at every turn.

And dragging selves that wrap themselves
Against the slowing rain
Are gone.

But here we are, and here it is
Rickets or gravity
Little difference. We are left
To ourselves.

Dark lines mark the pallid page to life
And start to sing
Of glooms and brightness; heavy steps
And light.
To a final Overwhelming.

- So we talk and write of Death.

But then the wind rises. The leaves now
Lift again, though 'Sit by you sit by you'
The Death bird sings by day by night.

The words welcome the sounds,
Listening in their fields of white
- all my good shepherds -
In the high fields, lanes and valleys of my life.

Words falter do not falter
In face of decay.

The ever changing marks
Are ever shaken

Speaking in the turmoil
Of time that always never

Slips away.

It's the wonder of the words that dare
The world to be. Levitation of the blurring
Dance of eyes and flashing hardnesses
Of walls and trains and roads  Words must
Witness by their mutual rituals, all
The gentle glories of a touch.

Your latest lover leaves the train.
The pattern on the seat interrogates.
No answers warm now emptiness is all.

The wings of possibility are burnt
Ammonia stenches, clouds.
No taking light of eyes agreed.

The window is still there.
You always were a window-watcher, you.
Now there may be something.
Maybe something new.

Now is the very time. The most high.
I tell you all to stand.  There is the sun
Of freedom.  There, see.  
Stand up and speak, be heard, be seen
To see it.  Spirits stretch to light
By nature, by all of us in eyes that
Meet in quiet powerful crowds.

We may slowly, sadly walk to home.
But we will ever each be keeping close
The open, breathing words.

You're still not seeing it
The master began....
I know I said
And shot him dead.
I can I can I can.