wedding poetry

little park that i pass through
my mother taught me that every night
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
up from the south at break of day
beside a stricken field
my son is dead and i am going blind
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
birds against the april wind
with her hair flaying wildly
bring me soft song
there is no escape by the river
how like the stars are these white, nameless faces