For D.S.J.
After the summer heroes dwindle into names
on dusty gum-cards stacked in boxes
buried in the rooms we never search;
after all the Cokes, the candied apples,
cigarettes and beer consumed in haste,
converting into flesh and world to burn;
after all the sweethearts run amok
in cheap hotel rooms, giving in to fear
that no one in the end will grant them time
to prosper or endure, time out to waste
in painted nails and factories of hair,
in drive-ins or the harping wards of babes;
after every dream of glory or of grace
in smooth performance of the given task
is punctured by the dismal needle, time—
love, may we catch some fragment of a song,
a canticle of blessed and bitter hours,
a lost refrain to carry into night.