Long Gone Blues

The face in the quiet night.
Absolute darkness, someone is
fishing downstream.

Words to be forgotten,
late, old stupid clothes, styles
that no longer exist.

Life. Movement of air, zephyrs,
the hit of bass or pickerel, somehow
love in it, the middle of it.

I ask you where was it, the space,
the air displaced? Gone on air?
Men dead from cannon fire and

grenades, children born, strange
lives beginning to find shape, where
is that sustenance, that past location.