Mr. Gone

You rushing, carping things below
whose minds are split asunder
with fear for coming night:
I will fold you in strong, dark hands
and raise you to my father sky

I am greatness
but see how generous I stand
as you rush between my feet.

Do you remember when we walked together
or sang huddled secret in the choir loft
our fat, sheep?s bodies shorn of remorse
or conscience
or need to be lightly elsewhere
If you have forgotten the shapes
of my slender, perfect fingers
think now of the snap,
the rush, of signs and mudras
fluttering against that far, white wall.

Take heart: I have not left you
to walk headless along crowded suburban streets
or tumble from high bridges designed by your engineer fathers
Instead, I sit in my wingback chair
sipping cognac by the light of blood-red candles
(or navy candles if you prefer)
My shoes were shined just yesterday
so I am ready for another walk.

What?s this? You and your questions
that hove into view like animal clouds
snare themselves in telephone wires
I have to laugh as I remember you
in shapes of cats lost many days? slink from home
See, something shiny from my pocket
I have brought you riches from the East,
you sweet, silvered fish
or loving chickens
or dear, dear pigs for roasting.