I've passed over to the other side
as a skeleton with a corn cob pipe,
		safari hat and sunglasses
sitting high in a chair above the entrance 
to a Village restaurant on Seventh Ave,
reminding patrons it's all a joke anyway -
how, in the evening,
the cool spring wind blows holes in the heart
that can't give up what might have been -
the same heart that soars in dreams
like an eagle over cornices and canyons of the city
		- always the city -
the countryside an unknown place.




				Brandywine
				3/26/96