One of the classic problems with collections like these is that the publisher is almost always dead, though in this case, he mentioned before he died that he would be entrusting the work to the care of a young girl - a person who I suspect he thought I might know.
And, while I didn't know the person he referred to then, I may yet, as he referred to her as his charge.
Not that one note is defined by a score -
or scored by a scribe that wants you no more!
We struggle to know one sound that rang true,
Without a memory, for music so blue.
We size up the horrors; what grievance reigns in,
In nightmares of hollowed, puppets of skin.
We follow the strains - a new note to play!
On parchment so browned by the patine of a Grey.
Resolved by a true love of harmonious spins,
A union of two notes brings peace to a hymn.
Laid-back visitors sit, in bright-red yard-chairs.
We gather our food, 'midst their stares.
With caps left behind after the lights went out;
Yellow cornmeal now, 'stead of white alter'd flour.
This one's so simple, missing her part.
Shifting by a road that still has a heart.
She joined me for lunch, just a few days ago.
A spot down the road - a safe place to go?
We'll find a way, to a place that really is,
On a path not of men, in a place that's really His!
Much of our time is thinking of death,
and death is thinking of me.
Forsaking this world we condemn it.
Arriving, we make way where we see.
Because we're so violently parted,
I guess I'd just rather we'd be,
On our way to the dearly departed,
Far away from the curse upon thee!