Blue Hen

Fires of the lighthouse burning in the bay Waters of the sound sleeping through the day Ostrich of the night half buried in the sand Nearer comes the man, sickle in hand Battles in the back seat, soap box car Black-bolt lightning car--I don't care who you are Fires of the lighthouse, sound of the guitar Far beyond a cure far beneath regard ("Things without all the remedy should be without regard"--Lady Macbeth) Death where is thy sting? In the trails of Sunfish sails and curve stitch string? Black mass ghosts of half-chewed hosts Off the Henlopen coast In the saltwater spring Death: You arrive washed up in the tide Normally alive with your consolation boots of Spanish inquisition eyes Prancing around the stage at your advancing age Offering stale communion to the presbyters of time? Cousins on the swing set, rabbits in the grass: Is it too much to ask to reproduce the past? Stories of the Ice Boat No.3 wreck kept us warm Sheltered from storm on the ocean floor And in the morning, we rest in Corinthian headdress On couches of ivory And wake in the moonlight Like badgers at midnight To friends made in factories somewhere You'll know where to find us, our best years behind us Barefooted pilgrims at shrines of our youth: 'Our joy was electric, our circles concentric...' Converging on statues of permanence Death where is thy sting? You ought to put more thought into what you bravely sing Aft-mast ships of straw-short bricks... You'll soon see exactly where my victory is The spring to its slumber Your lighthouses black Like virginal slumber I'll break like the lap Of your Delaware shore Your Blue Hen remains Will dissolve at my door Like a teaspoon of salt in the rain And I'll wrap up your absence In blankets of reverence A mastodon shadow Divided by zero And comfort your family With words like eternity And friends made in factories somewhere