Wyatt was on the way home
on a mission
trusted again more or less
but in a strange bed he died
Dante had gone the same way
never getting home with his breath

and with faces not known
clouding over them
what are you doing here
at the end of the world
words far from the tree
and the green season
of hearing

and not dying this time
or not planning to
but staying on with things to do

and eyes that can do nothing for you
by the tuned shore of dust
all of it lit from behind after singing

so soon

This Issue

March 28, 2002