It was you in the dark Who lay on the bed, Who played with the dead, Who suckled the teat - Who ate music and meat. It was you with the hand On the pendulum as it swang And summoned the chance To live, love and dance: It was you. It was you who saw visions Of satellites and revisions, Of history and time As your poured out your mind Into glassine bags and vessels: You who climbed roses growing On Mount Olympus’s trestle! Who opened the grave Who dug deep and was brave: It was you. It was you who went running After moonbows and sun-dogs After teaspoons and hot rocks After ancient minds embalmed And rough seas uncalmed; It was you who threw yourself On the north wind, The summer storm And listened to the hawk sing On dappled lawns, pouring Powder from the horn And packing the barrel As you raised a shot to Old Captain Farrell And to the whiskey in the jar. It was you Who are so near And have come so far. It was you and you only . . . But then I was lonely And wanted to play So I kicked off the shackles And emerged back out Into the broad light of day. And I ask you this, Most faithfully, my Friend of the gutter, Devoted to the glory of The filthy and unholy: What rose can deny the fruits Of her flowering? What season can deny the harvest Of the chateaus and the dowry That’s spent before the cloth Is even blood-stained and rent? What bullet can deny the power Of living under the starting gun? What planet can refuse to revolve Around the turning of the sun? Dare we say that . . . The wine was all drunk before The bride beneath the surface Dared to dunk all of her Stale-breadcrumb sins Into the oil and the water As she fled to be the Companion of the muse Instead of some Dead Jacob’s daughter?