I loved a black sky,
cold grass and the swirl of sunrise—
and those things still, as an old man,
but now my toolbox and machine-cut metal,
or a chair and a pill and a drink.
My parents divorced after twenty years;
they said, "Son, do well in school."
"For what?" I thought;
“A good grade never made her look my way.”
I admit, I'm a sleeping man,
searching for the roots of a dark Eve.
I would say I'm sorry to my mother,
I could never be a Navy man,
and an apology to my father,
I could never be a scientist.
I may have traded my birthright
to a revenant, or a delusion.
I'd say we should tremble at our existence,
burn till we ignite another,
and sleep like old ships—soulful;
I believe there is a mutual bright burn,
a source of all life and madness
sought by both aborigine and pilgrim.
