Once, we wrote our postcards in the dark
when the aspen was bent below its line
& after the archer had missed his mark;
this was in the shadow of Pluto's sign.
Scenes of the gold gates at Williamsburg;
visions of a Spanish summer, sea breeze
tanning Andrea’s shoulders. That was her
story, lit by lightening & poetry.
Parsival stayed in the dark, pressed his dream on
clowns, on invisible women, water,
& the endless road's endless temptation.
Jason was healing from spiritual slaughter;
he kept the record, traced their histories,
but the darkness froze the telling of his story.
13.IX.83
