My friend is gone to the large world over one hill;
he paces a new lit room among the tousled furniture.
Spreading his parchments along
the steady blocks in time's fire
cubed for empty daylight,
held open for blood's infinity
by a blue feather and a sign
of the netherworld's eagle,
pounced on by the dark sky
afloat in the rain like a post dragon--
fuck the air, fuck the people on the air,
dawn's footpath lay open the lawn that blooms
from a cut swipe of what's fought with all the gods
and lost like a reborn man--
I put on Ornette's 'Of Human Feelings'--a thing
we have hammered out
with sweet incompleteness.