I still dream
of blue mountains rising
from the tail of a long night

And regard the prose
of dead poets
with dark eyes
on the hunt for a new lie.

And still absently hum time-worn melodies
of a silver dollar moon
mirrored in steel black water.
Not there for anyone.
Cool to the coming sun.

Are things so different now
that I am different?
A man of forty watching
strong winds push
unsuspecting rain.