& here are a couple more little poems from long ago (Way Stations):


[infin che'l veltro verra]


Aboard a swift Greyhound
adrift in America,
one of the grateful dead
plays a slow harmonica.

Sons honor your fathers
and heed their command -
it's a surplus contempt
that lays waste to the land.

Fathers honor your sons
and regard the heart's law -
for it's ease and corruption
that open Hell's maw.

And I'll sing the dark waters
and keep the long watch
til that Greyhound swings home
across old Devil's Notch.


*


It is moonlight in the darkness,
and the heart finding after midnight;
it is a boat unmoored on the water,
and the current circling by itself.

It is tomorrow; it is a light word
floating through an open door,
and the wind moving in the quiet,
whispering over the land of the dead.