for once

a sky unfurls

above this dazed Eastland

of Holy worship and steel meat trains

a sky above

reflecting this Ocean of Winter of our world,

ashes smoked down past

forgotten moments arising

oozing bop rhythms improvised,

signaling another death below

the constant nocturne of horns

everyone intimately recognizes

while trying to swallow hard once again

this sky above

emanating trails of rebirth colors

that mix together so well,

that become another impressionist portrait of Oneness

fully viewed straight ahead,

moving past clockwise symphonies of

life and death once again integrating

in this my Sister’s house of mourning

we sit for seven days,

prophetically timed for loss,

mirrors covered,

hard wooden benches grounded,

now empty desperate hands washed clean,

all of the assembled

fearful of flight,

the constant pull of ashen-pot graves

now filled

and these trees standing tall,

sentinels lifting this sky above,

uplifting my lost spent–up passions

deserted to hitch-hiker hat wearing women,

trees still moist from distant flesh parades

now budding full of imperfect losses

so let us pray for those drawnbirds

somehow escaping wingless

from springtime ice valleys,

lost, startled, directionless,

nestless here in these artificial forests

below no sky above

and at sundown,

mournful bent heads

that cannot rest,

cannot be buried

deep into the mud of this season,

where no toxic rains might wash our hands

rinse clear our eyes

no sky above will endure,

till those before us

appear once more

to divulge themselves

revealing the expired's

next cycle of continuation

6/6/73

Elmwood Park, NJ