SAVING GRACES
When the pentangle comes down to the
level of bliss, and triangular reflections
cut the sky, maybe then I'll relinquish this
crown of mourning I always wear: The
decibel messages, a'slant' keep arriving.
The man tries to sell me books; the lady
wants me to get a shave from her hot-towel
ladle. I'd be amiss to ignore everyone, but
truly how can I choose between?
-
I have a friend I never see. He hides his
head inside a tree? I heard that long ago;
rocking in hillbilly pines, drinking cold
water from Evangeline springs; tasting
the bitter bark of constant willow trees.
-
Now, as I pass the last doorway and am
rudely dragged back, the ice-picker who
grabs me proclaims: 'It doesn't say 'last'
for nothing!' I tell him little back, but reply
in my way : 'If we are made of alien matter,
there's little else to say. Can't you just let
me pass by; one saving grace for the
last stranger on Earth? C'mon, what
do you say?'
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