Kiss Me Sakarov

The song so sweet, sent to poets far flung, wild, as surf, as turf, as rain, falleth gently, into meadow, melodically, as a kind of cleansing tear into the phallic exhaust pipe of love, the stratus sphere,

I had gone so long, “So Long, So Long”, to cause my wild children to go on as many field trips as possible, and, failing that, cuddle in a back seat or a street confabulation, to shriek as a bleating sheep, as a silent night, as a wrong, blithely or glibly said,

“So Long, So Long”

A bleak, November rain, where snows beckoned, and whispered– cause if snow comes, so does love?

I had gone, from Peru, wearing my wind pipe, my pipes of love, wanting a wife and child, a child mild, a summer of love, a good son and a ringing one, and a mass media, pure,

Pure as a snow bird, in snow of love, white, pure, and somehow under that blanket, or sheet, of snow, a ring of bright water,

For I had loved the “water cycle” had loved it so dearly so dearly as a word could never tell…