HART CRANE'S LAST HOUR
Playing my alto sax sonata
for "Hart Crane's Memory"
in refrains of riffs
at a Big Apple club
wishing you could be back with us
but you are near shipwrecked cliffs
by a chorus of sandpiper birds
over the Florida keys
watching a thunderous hurricane
as swallows rise
here under thundering rains
wishing a sunrise on your back
praying for epiphanies
against mad voices in your head
falling on your hurting knees
after a brooding distress
recollecting all your day dreams
above your searches and cruising
in underground shelters
hiding alcohol,drugs and booze
feeling as a castaway from Beelzebub
playing hands of solitary poker
without jokers or an ace of club
wanting a fast fading Muse of love,
sleep now, Hart Crane
by the poplar shade of shutters
on your trembling thin arms
knowing soon the bittersweet scent
off every crooked staff tree
will waft to outlast the waves
engulfing the last sea's epitaph
amid humid windows
in the portholes of your ship
weeping and laughing
at the last hour
not asking to save face
by seeking any pardon
at the fountain of perennial youth
when no one behaves,
Hart, may you find haven and heaven
on these island encantadas,
now rest in peace, in the weft
of a wind fallen sea
among a release
of a million millennial sunflowers
walking by evening primrose gardens
near parting leaves of a Juniper tree.
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