by Wick Fields
Somewhere down that road
There is an old friend waiting by a fire
He knows you all too well
And he's ready to laugh with you
At all the old stories.
The cruelty of the long night
Has nothing on those flames.
Oh the flames Whipping wild at city gates In Rome and Beijing and Cleveland Frightening the old Half cold in their graves And surrounding the young Half hung by their age. Oh the flames Lapping low at
by Wick Fields Every night I'm revived From the day's incursions By the language of the dead Because I'll tell you this No army can march Over Raymond Carver's mercy.
by Wick Fields There isn't enough time To express the wholeness of things There is only time To survive the blast.