He stands at the mic,
craggy faded eagle
in a grey suit, singing the verse
in a voice of smoke
I gazed across the valley
at the mute, brown hills beyond,
dappled with dark, round, oaks,
that remind me of Africa's veld.
Nature's conjunctions are invisible,
everything's conjoined, and language
only a dimwitted mimic
Dear Leonard Cohen,
Strumming and singing
my favorite songs of yours,
There's a gorilla in my back yard.
I'm making friends with him,
as he moves toward my world.
I weep at the purity of a little girl
carrying a cup of hot chocolate
carefully across the room.
Your fathers enjoyed things,
your fathers got their hearts broken too.
They were young, they were small,
they were cared for by their parents,
The bird of Time sat on a branch.
I thought to clip her wings, and so
I climbed upon her back — alas,
the bird took flight again, and now
The two men
walk together like overgrown boys,
a jaunty humor jingling between them.