AH, DYLAN, DYLAN
I used to sit in your bandied chair
Savoring the gloom of the White
Smelling the wharfish afternoon
And the corpulent spoor of poets.
Your perch was seductively muggy,
Redolant of brown-bred stout:
Youth was edgy, the razor's mark
Hesitant along the faults.
Other songs and danksome thickets
Demanded their tithe of talents
(Evasion, delusion, creation, collusion),
Yet they brought us here again.
Somewhere Catlin, light in the hearth,
The vision still solid, the step
Nightjars measure the meadowlark's
And the dreams are of dreaming and
For us, it's sleep to a steaming
Of Demarara and Earl Grey.
Odd, you know: I was long to learn
Graceful stumbling on time's high
Tip up the chair,
Belie the ghosts:
Morning soon enough.
There are poets unborn
To make peons of
When the angry sun returns.