American Singer

In memory of  Vic Chesnutt when I walk to the mailbox holding the letter that fails to say how sorry I am you feel your call or any words at all on that day would have stopped the great singer who long ago decided more quickly through to move I notice probably because you wrote that strange word funeral the constant black fabric I think is taffeta always draped over the scaffolds the figures scraping paint are wearing dusty protective suits and to each other saying nothing I move invisibly like a breeze around three men wearing advanced practically weightless jackets impervious to all possible weather even a hurricane I hear them say something German then photograph the pale blue turrets that floating up in fog seem noble heads full of important thoughts like what revolution could make us happy from some window wandering horns he was three when I was born for a long time I had no ideas my father worked in a private office full of quiet people working I came to visit it seemed correct I went to college studied things dyed my hair felt a rage disguised as love kept escaping suffering only a few broken bones everything healed now I live in California where in some red and golden theater I saw him howl such unfathomable force from only one lung it was one of  his last shows in Athens once many years ago we shared a cigarette a little smoke from our faces I can’t remember so many things but see him in his wheelchair his folded body it’s all gone but for electrons I can still push into my ears I choose the song the perfect one hear his words and see the mirror in the ancient lighthouse blinking brave ships somehow you crossed the water carrying what we need you can rest light as nothing in the harbor we will take it and go on