Yesterday I stood in the
parking lot
and breathed and wished
the air were colder,
just a little colder,
and let the coat
fall loose around my
shoulders.
In younger days, it
seems
to me, I did not hurt
because I did not care.
Gliding in slow rounds,
Gliding in slow rounds,
a dance in unending
light,
a reel in frost and
fairy-light.
O Absalom, Absalom, my
son!
I saw you hanging on
that tree—
I remember, once,
you ran your fingers
through
my hair and I
said nothing to you.
The man alone wants
only
to say something that
means something other
than that he is alone.
All we want is a place
to be,
a broad and open land.
All we want is to be
received, a little
gesture of welcome
in earliest morning.
Come, put the whiskey
on the table, let
me feel that I
am wanted in this
place.
We set our eyes toward
a better country
that we cannot see
where there will be
time
again for talking
and where the course of
time
will bruise no longer.
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