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Summer Air It's summer And in it a radio conducts Its own pleasure, The one song, Mr Bojangles Issuing its worth. I did love, I once Loved, yet territories Happen too often, Boundaries, Incisions in souls, Imagined flowers That never bloom. Maybe now, Memories on, Something different Might happen. I turn and face whoever I am and wonder: Is this pleasure Or deceit? A calm wind, A rose attended, The absence Of particular heavens. Somewhere lovers Touch and I here Among lilacs kiss In imagination The one refrain sounding: Mr Bojangles, Come back and dance. John Cornwall |
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