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Soft and easy, he begins
You notice that his mouth
Is brass and long and sad.
Eyes closed, he wails,
And leaves you in your world
And writhes and fades into his own
Ah, the pure love, hate, and feeling he sneds.
And you are aware of it,
But it is in him, not you.
I am perfection now, the Forms! He says.
And you feel only the Images;
And you feel, falsely.
The last note die; he walks away.
And you applaud, out of envy, respect
Because he knows truth,
And you can only watch and hear him love it.
The Promethean, Howard University, Spring 1964-1965







We couldn't come to our own party.
We were too busy
loving and working,
running on roads
that never crossed.
Perhaps we could have -
should have -
just once before
Time recycled
the seasons into neat
bundles, onescore and ten,
wrapped in gossamer.
Comes now a summons:
Dressed as you are
in the glow of memories
by all the years,
Fate requests the honor of your presence.
Crazy Visitation, 2001