When Beatnike Die

We spent the summer drifting
Like dry rot on the lake.
Our dreams hanging over,
Drooping on the boughs
Of willow trees as adolescence
Passed us like a cloud.

Then later your mother
Fixed the lemonade,
That we replaced with wine,
And set out on each others hearts
With knives and forks to dine

Each day burning out
Like the choke of cheap cigars.
The smell of mildew,
Of you, damp on my pillow,
Kept me restless through
The listless storms of night.
And the faint glow
Of dead end stars,
Kept me burning
In your sights.

We spent the summer chasing
Sparrows that we thought were doves.
Trailing our fingers in puddles,
Making ink blots on the carpet,
And talking idly of love.

Then later your fathers’ winter
Crept up into your blood,
And even the kiss of Isis
Couldn’t pull you from his touch.
Like a dead leaf released
From the trees, blown out
To be a sailor on the lonely
Mans blue seas.

I spent four springs waiting
For the lamb to be reborn.
I thought I’d picked the root,
Instead I chose the thorn.