Parading

It won’t last. Memory is sweet.

I come home this way, through the watercolor

I am light now, or on the side of light—

How good it is to feel the joy at last

I prefer not to ask how much longer and when.

traveling from before literature

Go forth under the open sky, and list

And my estranged hands

There’s a train a-comin’, there’s a train a-comin’