Well, my friends are gone and my hair is grey
I ache in the places where I used to play
And I’m crazy for love but I’m not comin’ on
I’m just payin’ my rent every day in the Tower of Song
I did the only humane thing left
“The infinite mistake of Pittsburgh does not take from the fact that the set of photographs is among my finest.”
“The body doesn’t make sense by itself,” you said, pointing the red-tip
wand at the chalky nudes of Ingres.
I do not wait for poetry
But go in search of it
Because my wings are broken
And I am left far from my nest…
her infinite soprano
and my street drawl voicing words that could
depress a saint
Under thy great sky in solitude and silence,
with humble heart shall I stand before thee face to face.
At seventy-five I find myself in love.
Not the serene love of an old man
steeped in the wine and wisdom of years,
but one who would kill a dragon for her.
There’s more light than anyone would need.
At six o’clock the sky is bright.
I have my friend’s last poem to read.
Let’s say I’m someone
empty as a pitcher,
discordant as traffic, human as an alley cat,
stiff-legged and torn-eared.