A memory, an apparition, fake,
a shotgun shack in which Jeff Buckley
is scribbling shorthand another Tim
or New York melody.
He is a lamp, shadeless,
a sink’s knob untended
that floods the sound,
flailing waves of Led Zeppelin and Nina Simone.
The future is everything,
but I still forget
the slow, patient dog
of his affection.
Left his heart out of his grasp
and knelt from the throne of vitality
where the stained-glass man points
high above the Wolf River, black.
But remember Buckley.
And remember his younger father,
a tenor depraved released in a pill
and a black turtle neck.
with those Cafe Sin-e’ claps
under fifteen lively covers.
That is more to crumble me into the future,
fill its churches,
and sprint together towards the pulpits
singing John Cale’s rendition of Hallelujah.
Remember the past,
remember the tear-filled numbers in the pews,
the normality of their informal attire
in light of gradual life,
remember their individual calls,
the prayers and hands joined under the body,
the slam of the rising pulleyed gate.