memorial poem

the endless, foolish merriment of stars
by the rude bridge
my mother taught me that every night
you are clear
in an old chamber softly lit
he'd even have his joke
i had over-prepared the event
i sometimes wonder if it's really true
i see all human wits
do you hear the rain?
it was a tall young oysterman
sad are they who know not love
there is a city, builded by no hand