when he is gone

his hair looks like wheat when you first meet him,

and you are muchly yourself, staring down from

mountains, delivering chocolate cake through hot

hallways, watching teh red spun sugar flowers

melt into puddles or

fingerprints. and when you talk to him quickly

he smiles like a small fish, and says 'civil disobedience

is the way

of great life. an dfine minds grow up around

lakes, and in

small newengland jail houses' so right away you

want to run across the black highways and duck

into the wheatfields (that look like

his hair) and build your own cabin on the edge

of wilderness, and you are alonein the moon, and

you are watching the rabbits sleep unafraid in the

grass, and you

are eating choclate cake, and when you wake up

the next autumn he is completely gone, on the other

side of te reservoir where there are reallive loons

and eagles

and now everything

tastes like saying his name,

an looking outside a window

at a Delphic streetlamp, which says in a drewly tone

"he is like my light.he is unreachable.

you are running

for your own health now"

and you read his poems

and you think of his hair.