William Heyen – Ⅹ
Sayonara
Long ago, on Long Island, when I was a boy, I’d bike
to ponds a couple-three miles away & to a lake
with an Algonquin name, Ronkonkoma, which might have meant
bottomless. One late-winter morning after first thaw
I found several coins in the ice-washed sands, & a sodden
five-dollar greenback among waterweeds.
One mid-summer evening when I needed to be home,
I stood instead to watch sunset burn the water,
then fall behind pavilions & a treeline on the far shore.
There were bats then, & birdcalls, & the green smells
of my mostly uphill ride home past Spectacle Pond,
& crickets, & the whoosh of my tires on tar.
That sunset stayed/stays in my mind, the bursts
of neural fire, the crimson beauty, the feeling that nothing
could possibly extinguish that sun, & then didn’t.
Long ago, on Long Island, when I was a boy, I’d bike
to ponds a couple-three miles away & to a lake
with an Algonquin name, Ronkonkoma, which might have meant
bottomless. One late-winter morning after first thaw
I found several coins in the ice-washed sands, & a sodden
five-dollar greenback among waterweeds.
One mid-summer evening when I needed to be home,
I stood instead to watch sunset burn the water,
then fall behind pavilions & a treeline on the far shore.
There were bats then, & birdcalls, & the green smells
of my mostly uphill ride home past Spectacle Pond,
& crickets, & the whoosh of my tires on tar.
That sunset stayed/stays in my mind, the bursts
of neural fire, the crimson beauty, the feeling that nothing
could possibly extinguish that sun, & then didn’t.