|
Bald
and indifferent events pass dissolving hearing
I squeeze a tune from a bald piano a cracked coffin
And pick up my scratched laurels Yet still I do not know where to turn
Fishing on an old bridge I view the city lights
There everyone is too busy to see a bald eagle land and share his secrets
We talk until I fall asleep on his back
I wake up awaking the eaglets and making a nest for their warm and bald wings
|