Epistle with Sonnet Number 61
(for my brother)
Do you think it's here? The long road into the west
Will inevitably come into view.
It was not as far as we supposed to the ocean.
At night while the waves churned,
the ghost of your little white dog danced on the periphery.
He's getting closer to figuring out what happened.
Old Dirty Bastard is crying about money and the holy ghost
but the sun
is reflecting off of the teevee screen
so I can't really see him.
ODB will be followed by an elfin guitarist, king of the Northwest,
who whispers and then screams.
Spring is speeding past us.
The days will grow longer until we too are round and sightless.
Sonnet 64
When age confounded my walk, night became my friend.
That’s new, I ought to tell you as the sun finally hid itself
sometime in the middle of May. Folks still say afternoon when
it is already far past five and I am fine with such proclamations
except for the facts rising ironically from such a bold contention.
There are plenty of stars, grand lunar landscapes to view
telescopically, the noises of distant aeroplanes and nearby
coyotes. I tell them about how the darkness comes alive,
even though some parts of my body are unaware of
the difference borne out between the moment Orion
gives into twilight and I touch my teeth to make sure
the front ones are still there. There is a certain kind of rustling
in my head and on the purple ground before me but I am
like Blake’s tiger now: prowling and burning; burning.
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