I'm not sure where I'm going, save getting old.
I can't remember the dreams that held me
through the passages of my twenties.
The snow drifts in my door
and the newspapers talk more to me.
I think I'd like to be free
but I can't recall what it would mean.
I've tried idealism, and then lust
and seen nothing but history's crust
and brighter chrome.
There's more, but I'm not sure what.
I've been adrift so long
I can't recall what it means to stand
grounded and know something...anything.
In some attempt to chart the river,
I've been swept away.
And I'm not sure just what it is I want or need
but I wish I'd find it, I need to find that seed.
I can see the snowdrifts piled so high
beneath the arc-lit sun that wheels so swiftly now
that the calendar pages fairly strobe.
gallagher
7 september 76
— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —