Cutting Merwin's Hair



I'd put the old boy in the cockpit of my boat
so he could have the breeze and sun
and get in deep, for everyone.

I'd pull the light across his mind 
and let his curls fall around my feet.
He'd dream his lover's songs in French,
leaning, so I could get his neck.

The sorcerer's glow my poet
had, in the chambray shirt in Finding the Islands
relies on us to know him well and satisfied.

For satisfied, its lick of stubborn grey
has so many styles to convene the heart, 

and there in my boat, with the air just right
I recalled leaving the museum the night before, 
seeing the tramp in the light 
cleaning off a smoke, 
so the memory might go down Merwin's waves, 
closer now, with a bit of flair 
and he'd shape some phrase below his crown, 
and yield, to my happiness, its own renown.




© Copyright 2004 Peter Chapman

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