The Latecomer

I want to begin a gigantic project,

A poem that has no end,

A song that cannot die,

And find my way to the fire,

For you.

I am a live wire seeking its proper current;  

I wish I were flanked by wild men and witches; 

Jeweled sages to race toward the waves 

As twilight casts down her 

Lavender dream;

For I have arrived like a latecomer

To an exhausted chase,

Out of place,

Aflame with another time.

The fire wanes in this tired parlor,

The hunters now yawn and smoke, 

Armchairs quiet, passions gone,

And which of these old men 

Can answer one such as me, 

I bursting in, lips trembling with hope?  

They are all ready for sleep;

They smoke now, and grunt,

Veterans of a dead contest.

I arrived too late,

Arrived like a jubilant child

To a darkened carnival, 

Or a fierce anthem

Long after the war,

Silly,

Out of time.

And yet,

And yet for you

I have hesitated in my denial,

And wondered 

Whether indeed to denounce

My bored and desolate age;

This sweet gale of your coming,

Is it a reply?

Will it rekindle 

The carnival lights?

Will it bring a stirring 

Through the shadowy parlor?

Is there then

A chance yet

For us?

Well, come; 

Let us make our run regardless,

In this the only time,

No way back,

And no 

Surprise,

Only this 

Sinking island

And then our 

Deaths.

Are you mad, 

My mad love?

Be mad, 

And not mad only

For a season, 

But till madness 

Is undressed,

And found to be 

Beauty,

And no 

Malady 

At all.