Some songs are windy evenings,
And some evenings are songs.
The age of giving up and giving in is here,
And I can’t tell which is which.
Suppose what I have written, useless and facile,
Could be collected in baskets
And tossed into the fire like the makings of a dadaist masterpiece;
How long would it burn?
How long do dried poems burn?
Or do they whimper into ashes,
Like the memories of old songs that are just old now?
Wishes are such violent things.
But I still wish sometimes,
Just as I write on evenings that might as well be
Beautiful, windy songs.



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