A Bucket'o Grief, of Love,of Blood, of No Thing

 
would (it) were
(it) could be such
an angelic presence
   would visit a touch of
   nature's freshness (a body
of our brief love, transient
& p'haps even contrived to
the moment)

he is sloppy, battered, incised,
    & tired per heart failing in
    a peopled lonliness
erewhile unthinkable, remembering
    a
song from afar, "Wrong End of The Rainbow",**
dangling in evening sky...come see,
    m'love, m'dear....it's becoming
late, & the sky so quickly changes,
never to be seen this way again, with
    such an ease of subtle variations

having come&gone, before eye can Know
                           any bless'ed
                             thing

**(by Tom Rush, c.1970)

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