A Poetry Sporadical of Repeating Forms
In Washington there’s bugger-all
to lure me down from Montreal;
and yet, when it was done, I came
to tell and touch and trace your name,
to taste the wormwood and the gall.
The Tet Offensive saw you fall
at Hoc Mon bridge. Still maggots crawl
and feast, but no one takes the blame
It’s strange, the things I best recall—
you hated Ringo, I loved Paul;
you dreamed you’d pitch the perfect game
like Koufax . . . What a bloody shame.
I weep beside this granite wall