There is a drunk on Main Avenue, slumped
in front of the Union Gospel Mission.
He is dreaming of pintos the color of wine
and ice, and drums that speak the names
of wind. His hair hides his face,
but I think I know him.
Didn't he make songs people still sing
in their sleep?
Didn't coyotes beg him for new songs
to give to the moon?
Didn't he dance all night once and laugh
when the women suddenly turned
shy at dawn
Didn't he make a song just for me,
one blessed by its being sung only once?
If he would lift his face
I could see his eyes, see
if he's singing now
a soul-dissolving song.
But he's all hunched over
and everyone walks around him.
He must still have strong magic
to be so invisible.
I remember him saying
Even grass has a song,
'though only wind hears it.