Fires of the lighthouse burning in the bay
|
Waters of the sound sleeping through the day
|
Ostrich of the night half buried in the sand
|
Nearer comes the man, sickle in his hand
|
Battles in the back seat, soap box car
|
Black-bolt lightning car I don’t care who you are
|
Fires of the lighthouse, sounds of the guitar
|
Far beyond a cure, far beneath regard
|
Death where is thy sting?
|
In the trails of Sunfish sails and curve stitch string?
|
Black mass ghosts of half-chewed hosts
|
Off the Henlopen coast in the saltwater spring
|
You arrive washed up in the tide
|
Normally alive with your consolation boots of Spanish inquisition eyes
|
Prancing around the stage at your advancing age
|
Offering stale communion to the presbyters of time?
|
Cousins on the swing set, rabbits in the grass:
|
Is it too much to ask to reproduce the past?
|
Stories of the ice boat wreck kept us warm
|
Sheltered from storm on the ocean floor
|
And in the morning, we rest in Corinthian headdress
|
On couches of ivory
|
And wake in the moonlight
|
Like badgers at midnight
|
To friends made in factories somewhere
|
You’ll know where to find us, our best years behind us
|
Barefooted pilgrims at shrines of our youth:
|
'Our joy was electric, our circles concentric…'
|
Converging on statues of permanence
|
Death where is thy sting?
|
You ought to put more thought into what you bravely sing
|
Aft-mast ships of straw-short bricks
|
You’ll soon see exactly where my victory is
|
The spring to its slumber
|
Your lighthouses black
|
Like virginal slumber
|
I’ll break like the lap
|
Of your Delaware shore
|
Your Blue Hen remains
|
Will dissolve at my door
|
Like a teaspoon of salt in the rain
|
And I’ll wrap up your absence
|
In blankets of reverence
|
A mastodon shadow
|
Divided by zero
|
And comfort your family
|
With words like eternity
|
And friends made in factories somewhere |