Dream Song For Harry Truman

You must not have believed in the death of poets. A harpsichord wind plays the bare, coral trees in an ashen sky. Songs sing like passive seas honed red with remembering. You are ancient Aztec, edged flint-- yet you burn in us as we slide down your back, wooden curls rising, jigging on knuckles. All things must fit, Harry. Bridges wane, catching your slide to darkness, your rediscovery-- face burned umbra, ambered fingers like ancient ivory in water - that morel in spring green as your memory still walking these streets, still clicking these sidewalks like a wind chime in soft evening turned sun-wise with our remembrance, our hope, the brief glint of those glasses like a trout churning water's silver mirror, softly touching your long reflection cast in eternity - something loved we have lost, regained.