Make Hay

So long
So long
So long
So long

So long
My old friend died that way:
The accumulation of time and the passing of days
Though she dug in her heels—
Drug her wheels in the clay—
She dotted her eyes;
Crossed the teasels in her leaning dray
Where buzzards make circles
(and tillers make hay):
A dozen in kettle, comittee & wake;
Where wind made the dust
And sin made the snake
And mama made us

But what did I make?
And how was I to know
Down in our old goldmine
Where you were the king of the radio
And I was the keeper of hi-fi
And I was the queen of the rodeo
(And everybody'd know,)
And you were the keeper of the lions;
And we were gored, and abased
And adored, and erased
All before our time?
It was before our time

So how was I to know?
How was I to know
While tune hums
And the hand strikes the gong
And all of us plough our row
And the notes run
Out of measure and out of time and landing wrong?
The day is long, but not so long

My old friend died alone
Save for the friends and family she had known
Surrounding her bed
None of whom in that room
Could with certainty have said
“I've dotted my eyes
Crossed the teasels in my leaning sled
Where buzzards make circles and tillers make hay:
In windrow and bale
With tedder and rake;
Where Adam made ribs
And cattle make steak.”
(And the rattling nib writes
“What did I make?”)

And how was I to know
Seeing my seconds pass in a line
If there was a way to reckon love
Except as a symptom of time?
And honey, it stretched out below us
Humming every note
From the lowest to the highest
But even at the highest we were bored, and amazed
In accord, in a daze
All before our time
It was before our time

So how was I to know?
How was I to know
How was I to know
How was I to know
While the day slows
And the sun stares, stalling
Into the dimming barrel of night
Where the stars are falling?
I've got no say
But still
I'm calling for my old friend
We sow and we reap, again