Bitter roseblood from dead grapes,
Miniature rivets, flowing on cracked lips.
Old men fighting death in secret corners,
Time rushing wildly through terrified streets.
Odors of laughter reach the nostrils,
Pure poetry from the mouths of children,
Waves of dark flames batter the dawn.
The crawling day arrives, on skinned
* * *
SMALL MEMORIAM FOR MYSELF
Beyond the reach of scorn, lust is freed of its vulgar face.
No more blanch of terror at reality's threat of sadness.
No blend of grief can cause the death of laughter now.
In rememberance of certain lights I have seen go out,
I have visualized pathetic rituals and noisy requiems,
Composed of metaphysical designs of want and care.
Bob Kaufman, The Ancient Rain: Poems 1956-1978, publisher: New Directions Publishing Corporation