Down the road, down the road, all my friends live down the road. Old folk poem—down
the road and around the bend, ain’t got a letter in I don’t know when. Morning now. Rain.
If I think on it I’m remarkably simple. Papyrus, flute, true horse, following dog.
Up early, knocked about by nostalgia. I think boyhood lonesomeness holds clues.
Goemetrical, blazing, deathless,/Animals and men march through heaven,/
Pacing their secret ceremony. Thank you Kenneth Rexroth.
I sense the precise turn in the road, laid out by the gods’ hooves.
Day night our prancing. Thank you Pentti Saarikoski.
Living “up the road” from those I miss, what can it mean?
It means you are a centaur, with light in its eyes.
Planet of the Blind 