49. LOST LOVE, BLUE EYES

    Last space ship in, the space age is over.
    It was too far to America, and we have
    rediscovered god in the unfathomable
    sea where we have finally realized the
    meaning of 8.
         Dear Faith, dawn still creeps every aging day
         with pink fingers through the green
         and dew beyond my window — —
         as it always has.
And lost love as surely as dawn
turns into dry summer day.    She
went away. I passed from her mind
like a heavy stone. Adolescent fantasy?
Read on. It’s all in the stones, like
the Mountain’s face. Critique, like
theology and like 8, is brushed aside
by pink fingers dripping with dew.
I have rediscovered O8O. I tear from
a stoned heart this thought: fly far,
my love, my dear sweet friend
   of a past year,
   of a shared dream,
my beloved companion. Fly far,
let many dewy dawns rise out of
your blond hair. May those marvelous
blue eyes of yours often rise from
shadow into sunlight, your pupils
contract in twin clear blue flashes.
You take with you a piece of my heart,
far as long as you remember me.
And I, you. Faith is my prayer,
love my hawk—borne gift. Far, far,
fly, memory, swift but homeless thought!