Sunday, January 13, 2008

Sparrow's Evening Song

the bearded, moth-winged
man smells of summer and
doesn’t know no socks

as he rides on his long
faced fuzzy mongrel up towards
the pinkness of a

dusky mountain horizon,
overcoat flailing behind
as a banner,

announcing the return in
every young bosom of
grassy lyings and longings

to be with, to be long,
to free another, one’s
self,

and those who pause
in this venus hour
and hear my song will know

there is no sweeter darkness
than a moonful rise in
June.

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