Freedom, Bound

moon in clouds

Play Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata as you read this.

WayneSL to Bryan 1987

There is so little comfort in your life;
you have not spent your
self
on comfort.
Naked madness
howls in empty lots
on moonlit borders
of my thoughts of you
Your search continues
in exile.
Eating garbage and dandelions.
for years.
Sleeping in the bus depot
while the buses leave.

You, who hear the music
of plants and mountains-
who know the feel of wood in hand
and shovel sunk in dirt-
and see the patterns
of the stars
and molecules
You spend your time
amid the greasy peeling Formica,
among the moths and mosquitoes
on streetlamp peninsulas,
overlooking tar-river streets
or walking out along the strand
of the interstate ocean,
and harboring in
dusty over-used slum rooms
with too many coats of paint
unless you
sprout like a mushroom on some morning lawn,
awakened by dew settling
to sparkle on your
stubble-bearded face
or root through mountain forest floors
for grub
and stride across the desert.