Dream Song 127: Again, his friend's death made the man sit still

Again, his friend's death made the man sit still

and freeze inside—his daughter won first price—

his wife scowled over at him—

It seemed to be Hallowe'en.

His friend's death had been adjudged suicide,

which dangles a trail

longer than Henry's chill, longer than his loss

and longer than the letter that he wrote

that day to the widow

to find out what the hell had happened thus.

All souls converge upon a hopeless mote

tonight, as though

the throngs of souls in hopeless pain rise up

to say they cannot care, to say they abide

whatever is to come.

My air is flung with souls which will not stop

and among them hangs a soul that has not died

and refuses to come home.