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.
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