| The sun again over the harbor
|
| Changes the windows
|
| Like old yellowed mirrors
|
| On Rembrandtsplein
|
| The pipes in their places
|
| Beside floral couches
|
| Where you lie
|
| Evening encounters
|
| At Paradiso with him
|
| The gentle poetry
|
| Of fingertips
|
| The verses drifted
|
| Apart in the Spring
|
| Lingering verses
|
| Remaining within
|
| Haiku are words to be counted now
|
| Five seven five
|
| Friends is a word to be wanted now
|
| Searching through colored beads
|
| Velveteen curtains
|
| And doctors' names
|
| The winter finds you alone
|
| With yellowed back issues
|
| Of Rolling Stone
|
| And old Alohas
|
| Worn Chinese carpet upon the floor
|
| Half the White Album
|
| All of the Basement Tapes
|
| And bootleg Stones
|
| And new life styles
|
| Have found old death styles
|
| All their own |