The tracks, where trains cross and screech to your ears, are held in eye
A heartburn and dreams of high golden docks with hands full of sky
Where young winds, made pure through rambles in birch, make home on our cheeks and settle any aged rainy cloud hung in grey.
And our noses so cold will be well worth their shedding to make colors of all kind hue
Those paints colored of memories of children whose fingers have asked moving waters in baptismal eddies in Spring,
"where am I to wander."
In absence or presence-those days of indiscretion, I shall bathe in color.

The colors of waters,
the blisters of blacks
For a soul to depart,
To move from his grave,
to walk on forever to edges of lakes,
but his body is brittle,
he worries in winds,
he cannot walk fast,
He is not made to swim.
So, ever so slowly,
He fell fast away,
in light pieces that wind caught to the air for to stay.

How will he wander when legs are bound gone,
the pieces that once made up. . . .
caught in the branches of Fall's sycamores.

In those sycamore's I ask,
Where's the dear boy gone,
torn into ribbons and spread on lawns
of the very worst neighbors and the most pleasant people,
adrift in a steamship or waving at some lonesome steeples edge.
The world may never know,.
An ask, it never will have right to try.
In the midst of all questions,
the sweetest by and by

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