God help me, I don’t know where I’m going.
We hold each other’s hand like children
finding our way home among the closing wolves.
For those who loved me I leave nothing because
they require nothing of me and never did and instead
send me on my way, my boat full of burning flowers.
Yes, I said, to that other self that younger self that
swaggering young ass
who sewed up his heart with cat gut, yes
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.
Let me say that love will not
let me alone. If it has let you alone, go back
and find it where you hid it under a scrim
And that is the way with love.
Speak only when you cannot help it.
However strange and vibrant the sound.
Now I have given away all my rage.
Watch the young stride ahead of me into their own mistakes.
Fenster McGraw is crawling out the back window of his lover’s house and stumbling into the alley pulling up his pants, and is spotted by the ever vigilant widow Winnie Wildwood with her nineteenth century naval spyglass who’s had her suspicions about that Wilson woman anyhow