Clown in the Moon

Clown in the Moon

My tears are like the quiet drift

Of petals from magic rose;

And all my grief flows from the rift

Of unremembered skies and snow.

I think,that if I touched the earth,

It would crumble;

It is so sad and beautiful,

So tremulously like a dream.

Of any flower

Hourly I sigh,

For all things are leaf-like

And cloud-like.

Flowerly I die,

For all things are grief-like

And shroud-like.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage,rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right.

Because their words had forked no lightening they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men,the last wave by,crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn,too late,they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men,near death,who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be Gay,

Rage,rage against the dying of the light.

And you,my father,there on the sad height,

Curse.bless,me now with your fierce tears,I pray,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage,rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan and Caitlin before New York.

A refusal to mourn the death,by fire, of a child in London

Never until the mankind making

Bird Beast and flower

Fathering and all humbling darkness

Tells with silence the last light breaking

And the still hour

Is come of the sea tumbling in harness

And I must enter again the round

Zion of the water bead

And the synagogue of the ear of corn

Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound

Or sow my salt seed

In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn

The majesty and burning of the child's death.

I shall not murder

The mankind of her going with a grave truth

Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath

With any further

Elergy of innocence and youth

Deep with the first dead Lies London's daughter,

Robed in the long friends,

The grains beyond age,the dark veins of her mother,

Secret by the unmourning water

Of the riding Thames.

After the first death,there is no other.

Grief thief of Time

Grief thief of Time crawls off,

The moon-drawn grave,with the seafaring years,

The knave of pain steals off

The sea-halved faith that blew time to his knees,

The old forget the cries,

Lean time on tide and times the wind stood rough,

Call back the castaways

Riding the sea light on a sunken path,

The old forget the grief,

Hack of the cough,the hanging albatross,

Cast back the bone of youth

And salt-eyed stumble bedward where she lies

Who tossed the high tide in a time of stories

And timelessly lies loving with the thief.

Now Jack my fathers let the time-faced crook,

Death flashing from his sleeve,

With swag of bubbles in a seedy sack

Sneak down the stallion grave,

Bull's eye the outlaw through a eunuch crack

And free the twin-boxed grief,

No silver whistles chase him down the weeks'

Dayed peaks to day to death,

These stolen bubbles have the bites of snakes

And the undead eye-teeth,

No third eye probe into a rainbow's sex

That bridged the human halves,

all shall remain and on the graveward gulf

Shape with my fathers' thieves.

I dreamed my Genesis

I dreamed my genesis in sweat of sleep,breaking

Through the rotating shell,strong

As motor muscle on the drill,driving

Through vision and the girdered nerve,

From limbs that had the measure of the worm,shuffled

Off from the creasing flesh,filed

Through all the irons in the grass,metal

Of suns in the man-melting night.

Heir to the scalding veins that hold love's drop,costly

A creature in my bones I

Rounded my globe of heritage,journey

In bottom gear through night-geared man.

I dreamed my genesis and died again,shrapnel

Rammed in the marching heart,hole

In the stitched wound and clotted wind,muzzled

Death on the mouth that ate the gas.

Sharp in my second death I marked the hills,harvest

Of hemlock and the blades,rust

My blood upon the tempered dead,forcing

My second struggling from the grass.

And power was contagious in my birth,second

Rise of the skeleton and

Rerobing of the naked ghost.Manhood

Spat up from the resuffered pain.

I dreamed my genesis in sweat of death,fallen

Twice in the feeding sea,grown

Stale of Adam's brine until,vision

Of new man strength,I seek the sun.