Reading Ulysses in Montana #624
The snowfall in Central Park, the winds in Red Square, your torn raincoat on the steps of the National Gallery.
But where are you now that the sun is shining? Shining all along the river and the paths through the forest, the forest of your discontent that year when the moon fell hard from the sky, the sky of darkness near your last round with the guitar and my sighs, my songs. Where are you since the songs began to sing on their own and weep for the past, weep for the future of empty jars of wine and roses, empty these seven years of silence–of solitude.
The streets of heaven and the bogs of hell are not yet ready for you, for your shine, for your absence. Put your time back in the bottle and send it to me on the high seas of changes that crash against the yellow wood.
The Uffizi and St. Marks and the Spanish Steps wait more patiently than I do. Winter comes, will you?
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