A Summer Air

It's summer
And in it a radio conducts

Its own pleasure,
The one song,

Mr Bojangles
Issuing its worth.

I did love, I once
Loved, yet territories

Happen too often,

Incisions in souls,
Imagined flowers

That never bloom.
Maybe now,

Memories on,
Something different

Might happen.
I turn and face whoever

I am and wonder:
Is this pleasure

Or deceit?
A calm wind,

A rose attended,
The absence

Of particular heavens.
Somewhere lovers

Touch and I here
Among lilacs kiss

In imagination
The one refrain sounding:

Mr Bojangles,
Come back and dance.

John Cornwall

If you have any comments on this poem, John Cornwall would be pleased to hear them.

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