Garden Poem

I say a blessing
in the half-dark,
which is the passing pathos
in which I live
always with a question mark

 

the garden's golden light
grows into the room
through the purple drapes,
illuminating a thousand ideas,
despite the suppression
of the jealous sun...
and I live in the half-dark
always with a question mark

 

Handel plays in the haunted hall:
water notes bouncing off the kitchen wall...
Ginsberg just left for Whitman's store
and St Augustine for the golden shore...

 

and it is only I
and another in this house:
worldless Bohemians
yakking madly
into the well of the ages
and basking
in the echos' pyrrhic glow