I will not be remembered,
not in the history classes
or in the breath
that fogs rose colored glasses
when widows weep at dawn.
There is an apocalypse in my chest,
and there is a bluebird beating its wings.
We are the cynical age of man
we are the mouth of ridicule,
I met a hermit where a stream diverged,
passing the hours and the minutes of day
and honing his whit he stopped to stretch, and said—
We wish to be a king not free
of the autocrat or tyrant’s
immortal knee on our airway—
easier to be chained than change.
In youths youngest hour comes the dawn
and we whirl around at the sky,
and being young and in love