What good times were those
when the days were a thousand paralleled bridges
I passed beneath,
or rounding a hilltop, following
the leader's master.  The ending was of an earned knowledge
and the beginning was esteemed as fate.

The night was made of movable parts
and its guiding breath was the topic.

What good times
when fear and anxiety finally
delivered your promises for you—
and all you had to say was,
“You, Sue, sit here.”

When hallucinations moved inward not outward
and joy crackled at the center,

devil worship degenerating
into smearing yourself on the floor.

In the attitude of retirement,
writing those intimate, enclosed songs
while talking wistfully about the “old band,”
and how great, as you earned your legacy.

What good times were those
and what a great way to frame
songs that were already growing intimate and enclosed
when you still knew who they were.