1973. Your bright spring of fame already on the wane
Careless descent into the dull machine begun
Accidental death beside your child’s mother to come
But I was still young. I ventured out Saturdays in platform shoes
Tight red tank top, cheeks glistening in the summer night
My corkscrew curls freed by your inspirations
Clawed from the years obscure, dwelling in bedsits
With Hobbit books and Elvish poems and Tooks,
Happy endurance, no doubt, until your season
Of discovery arrived, borne by a white swan’s wings.
And all your rivers of melody and funk flowed easy
But for so short a time, the well dug shallow
And not easily refilled. How you strained
To find a bridge to bear another verse
And seemed to yield too easily, to the mirror,
To the tedium of fame, the moments of transcendence
Before the fatal crash. Barely registered by me
Or others you gave courage to be free.
Yes, you painted a star on the sky. Now fly high
Upon the dragon’s back, you need be chained no more:
No longer bound by words or simple chords.
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