| OLD MEN Strange I can hear the fog horn miles away so clearly so close and not you, so many miles away maybe laughing in the City where the houses touch like old men holding each other, maybe weeping in all the lights of it. All the rocks touch softly from the Rincon to Fort Ross and we have half a moon tonight for hope. I notice we speak mostly like madmen in the dark, late over coffee or at sunset or in some last lost hopeless house of pancakes in the still and desperate air. I have seen the noonday devil walking in the daylight, high and shadowless sunlight saying need them cakes to feed that jones. Being a poet is the saddest thing, to dream of the sea at Bolinas. That and all the other cooler places, until someone prays for you and me in some lost and lonely room. Since the end is never told, I dream of the sea at Bolinas. Kyle Kimberlin |
 |