A poem for William Wellington

Sweetness such as flesh
comes out of the horn of William Wellington
It is the sound of pain, made
in the dark of tombs.
But it is golden as peace
as the fire we shared together mornings,
Pink lights around us.
But it’s more than that
The rock and roll of to-
day shared with
that man made
five thousand years ago a gold
helmet (his) with the black
and white saints of
              Washington Street.
Roxbury rocks
right as the ears
which could cure a
of his despair
dropped as he is in
the dead hole of
    hungry mothers
he removes the bars
and re-erects an
axe to cut through
the walls we build
   in ever higher
tiers around ourselves.  Therefore our
throats he cleans out
your ears telling
    me nights in the past
that it would be a good day
the sound is;  fills my
throat with certain
therapy for your pain,
with the greatest ease, undone
the bars of prison
               So long they
surround him.  Only
this instant are
we both walking
avenues of
poplar trees in
              the Sportsman
Bar, shooting big game into the
              arena of space.
(c. 1956–57)

Courtesy of Mr. and Mrs. Wellington, North Dartmouth, Massachusetts.