RIVERS OF MOUNTAINS AND
MOONS OF THE NIGHT
They stood fifteen hands high these
mighty men. They arched their silver
torsos over any land they chose.
Fiery filament engaging the night -
light's fearsome torch in some old
harbor-born exercise of toil and pain.
-
We stepped forward, high on that one.
It was 1957 all over again - before things
had changed for the worse. Elvis sheets
and convertible nights, chewing gum cards
and baubles hanging from mirrors and lamps.
Nothing meant much, and everything meant
nothing. What do I get for that now?
-
Criticism and slander and an itch and a scratch.
MOONS OF THE NIGHT
They stood fifteen hands high these
mighty men. They arched their silver
torsos over any land they chose.
Fiery filament engaging the night -
light's fearsome torch in some old
harbor-born exercise of toil and pain.
-
We stepped forward, high on that one.
It was 1957 all over again - before things
had changed for the worse. Elvis sheets
and convertible nights, chewing gum cards
and baubles hanging from mirrors and lamps.
Nothing meant much, and everything meant
nothing. What do I get for that now?
-
Criticism and slander and an itch and a scratch.
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