Page 15 - Contrast1971Spring

Wind Shade Blown

How long must the living
how long must the dead;
before the echo ends in silent haste,
or whether the canyon smells of the sewer

how long must the river,
so hard beaten vein flow humbly before us
as we before an unknown deserted tennis court in Alabama
shaking hands in desperate sweat
with greasy smiles and unshed tears.
I'd say goodbye a thousand times and kiss you breathlessly
but neither shadow mixes with the earth
I can remember when the peeling wall had a clock that ran
and shook as' it ticked out a lazy rythm;
and chalkdust filled my nostrils with some sense of
Puritan modesty
but never failed to bring a sneeze.
We learned many things useless
which in turn taught us some truer worthlessness:
so live
the living live and live
remembering yellowed faces and lost voices
smelling pressed flower albums,
leaving tears upon a piece of ribbon.
'But even if not the windshade blown
or the deadman's breath rose faint again
the soft rememberance,
pulsing a sad torture, cannot survive the present hope
of strange fortune.
Yet by those same pains of softness
do I hate to go, leaving again a moment's touch with love
to be only too longed for in some instant
perhaps by the sea
How long must the living
how long must the dead

•