poem

a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
the old west, the old time
and as we walked the grass was faintly stirred
the air is full of dawn and spring
if i were very sure
now that i have cooled to you
all within and all without me
i cannot always feel his greatness
dark-eyed
some of the hurts you have cured
truely
how like the stars are these white, nameless faces
the darkness rolls upward
along the banks