i have been thinking of the long arms of peasant girls,of cold streams where the sun washes up on the sand.of far-away places, things i might love,
of the town where i was born, its long streetsclimbing the dusk hill, of the young girls in thearms of boys, suspended in the thin lightof street lamps. i have thought of june wind outsidethe town filling the cypress, running down tall vinesof the full stars, of my feet on the peebles of deserted roads.
i have thought of these things, & my heart is on firefor them. a man goes to these places& decides for himself which way thesun shall fall on his eyes.
