April in Greenwich Village


Who said it was cruel? Who said it was
bordering with psychosis?
The music is standing on its toes
omnipotent and omnivorous
I'd left long ago before a brief return,
before a subdued, desired
welcome whose grace I have never earned
and now it's expired.

I am the patriot from the land of spring,
joining into the circle
of dust and ashes, and yet I ring
numbers remote and local.
They are in the books strewn like beads
in the corners of tiled and timbered
coffee-houses where no one eats,
and nothing has lingered.

Now when you are completely gone,
Derek, shadows are near Bleecker,
and they would prefer to have none
of me before they grow any weaker

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