Poetry A Tribute to Lewis Warsh
Clouds
for and after Lewis Warsh
Clouds of a certain color become clouds of another, shades of gray knots of sparrows pass across on
their way home to roost
Consolation is always late in coming
You can drown your sorrows in bourbon or burgundy or chocolate milk
You can pick a name out of a hat, you never know whose it might be
At some point everyone you now know could have been someone else, but now you know them as
themselves, and you, for what it's worth, are you
What exceeds memory might haunt you forever, but there's no accounting for what you'll never
forget
A pile of rocks on the concrete steps, the briny sea air of the arcades in Asbury Park
It was like looking through the keyhole of a vacant room
Maybe no one knows the fate of those who've come this way before
Maybe the whole world is filled with jam
There's always a last time and a first time for everything, and it could be anyone knocking at your
door for no reason
Reorganize the books on their shelves as if cleaning the cobwebs from the corners of your mind or
translating desire into a picture postcard someone once sent you
Put it in a frame and hang it on the wall above the piles of dirty laundry and scratched lotto tickets
If nothing else, the gaze of the ancestors will keep you in line
How being 8 was in the ocean, sky with no end overhead
One's name seems important to put at the top of the page
Get your facts straight first before you take another step closer
It might well be possible to know something about something, but how far are you willing to go if it
isn't?
A strip of sand, a shovel and pail, the face of each passing stranger like someone you once knew
I used to know something about something, or so I thought, but now I spend my time learning the
difference between one and the other, in a sleepless stupor, the days getting shorter till the cows
come home
Step out from under the vinyl awning and into the August heat