As a boy I sat on the corner
near the old town men with
Lute and Lyre. Their sad songs
filled my throat, and from
my toes to my eyes I swam
invisible waters rippling
in space from the sound
of fingertips on gutwire.
Many a time I thought
I could die there, in the
vibrational hum of home
in this cruel world, longing
for skill to take myself
out of myself, a song for
the dark road, a way through
all the meaningless chatter.
They taught me well and I
carried my harp town to town
as a vagabond child with his
taut- stringed companion who
could sing in the wind sometimes
without ever being touched
angels, they said, angels were
with me
Who can say, perhaps my sin
was in wanting, consorting
in sadness,
in trying to hold on to sound
that disappears in the ethers, perhaps
in remembering the old songs
but forgetting the words, who
can say but perhaps I wandered
too long in a tangle in idle daydreams
and self-satisfied simplicity.
I could die there, I thought once
and did.
And how it happened is
a mystery I cannot tell.
The children were witness
when the angels flew away
You can listen for my story
in their song.
Early Morning Poems 