If I linger in the doorway,
Will you awake?
Will you call out my name,
Call me back to you?
Will you turn me back from the day,
Back to the dim light of our quiet home?
Or will I simply linger a moment
In the silence, alone
Hoping for some force to forestall my parting,
A call that does not come?
Ahead, the road is grey and shrouded in mist
And this car is devoid of warmth.
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Another grey day,
Under the thick autumn clouds,
Searching for the words
Through the morning mist
The headlights shine, lighting up
the dull grey highway
Your laugh, lilting like lines
Flung from a fiddle fair,
Sweeping sweetly o’er the shaded field
Where once we were young
Now echoes only in my mind,
In memories, clouded-
A Pine forest in the morning mist,
A bridge fogged over
Until there can be no certainty
That there is another side-
Only in this hollow palce
Does that joyful sound
Now ring, now roll, now rise.
And how I long to hear it once again
Ripple across the deep blue ocean of your eyes.
I want to be-
As Ginsberg described Dylan-
Transformed into a column of air,
No longer substantial, but only movement.
Then I could rage down 9th Street,
The way the winds once did on cold winter mornings,
Forcing us to pull up our coats up against that fury
And roll our cigarettes inside sheltered pockets.
I could sweep coolly over Cooper Square,
Tumbling, the way we once did,
Drunk with youth and whisky,
Racing to wherever it is that spring breezes go.
I could be some weary sailor’s salvation then.
I could be the song not the singer then.
I could be only the whisper, soft against your ear.
If I were transformed to a column of air.
Tired, heavy eyes
Watching the sunrise breaking
Over the highway
A red-tailed hawk circles
Over the empty highway
That snakes through the mountains
Beneath heavy clouds,
The grey buildings of the city
Play at being mountains
Black ink on paper,
Small scratches, grouped together-
The image of a tree.
The snow’s blinding white
Is muted by morning’s dull grey-
The wail of the wind