these are the stones that remain
after the flood recedes
and the sun dries
widening circles on their tops
patterns of dark and dry
similar to religious emblems
or the fervour of a congregation
spread out along the lake shore
those brought in white clothes
to be initiated
take a last look around
at the world as it was
then they are washed with dust
towelled vigorously with water
and filled with the lifelong kind
of luminous darkness
reading HOWL again
still vibrant
so many years on
it doesn't seem possible
the poet could ever die
but he has
and before seeing his Manhattan
gouged by the mad sheik's
kerosene martyrs
I think of him and Walt Whitman
meeting on the ferry
(Allen taking off his clothes)
shaking their heads at the smoke
and at poets
who claim to be in the business
of imagination
but say this one's too big and close
to write about