Classic Poem

In the night all night
every three feet from window
to world's end their myriads
morselessly tap
tap tap the call letters
S(...) I(. .) H(. . . .)
to a world they don't dream of.

Come in S ... Come in H . . . .

But they are busy with time
and don't hear us. Because
they have but a summer — no,
less than a summer, the gold-
enrod and bittersweet
end of a summer is all; and time
itself's their nectar. Tap

tap tap the invisible kegs
of second after second, frothed
with Aquila, Cygnus, the Crown ... High
in the tremendous taverns of the trees,
they are not aware of us,
the mere dregs.











By permission of the author.