good-night good-night good-night to a sculptor
good-night to a voice in the chorus of man.
the madness of the angels when it pushes through the ground,
will turn the world behind
the eyes and once it caught
the sculptor by surprise but death has got him now,
he took the sculptor out of town.
“good-bye good-bye you must say good-bye
to fields of grass and fruit upon the ground,
the rain forever coming in your birthing town
with the sound of water running where two rivers flow together
with the cedars and the sky.”
In a place where trees grow up and down,
a wood of crows ascending
with a more than heavenly sound,
once told us that the sculptor left
this world of ours
they told us that he walks behind the stars, the words he spoke to us
receding with the heart of man,
that races through the autumn trees and turning
makes the circle full
by moving through the world below.
Beyond the concrete slabs and iron doors
the sculptor walks on purple shores
as in your hour of deepest sleep
you wake to find the end of grief
He watched the earth until he fell asleep
good-night good-night the sculptor dreams.
