William Sherman
all my old comrades
all my old comrades are gone, scattered
and the transitions of earth take us to places where
we write or speak in hurried voices, or on the telephone
or to adobe deaths
we fly across oceans, drive
across continents, islands
and the dream of neighbourhood
vanishes
the earth is too large
gatherings occur too infrequently;
departure is imminent
but where to go?
the pain of friendship and of love
is forcing me to close my heart
let them sleep easily this night
all my old comrades, gone, scattered
Page(s) 152
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