Where The Sixties Went

As the winter deepens the fire gets brighter
And where the shadows were is light
Until everything could be exterior.
The inside, cleaned out like a mirror,

Reflects back nothing of the care that pervaded
Your summer. The gothic tourists invaded
The beaches, the flies were swept away,
Families in bathers reminded the sky, It's Sunday!

Those were jocular seasons - everyone cohabiting
Each others bodies, finding the best positions
In the manual and sticking to them like lizards on rocks,
Expecting the sea to soak Marianne's locks
When she was still a golden girl, without hazard,

Never having heard strife in sordid tenements
Or arguments ring down echo alley.
She met us one day, we took guitars
And hope to the end of Crapulous Valley.

We slept and woke beneath the stars
Nowhere near innocence. The old constellations
Had been replaced by modern signs:
Do Not Enter Here, and Leave By Exit Only.

The grossness of our words was pared to rind
And often, now, I wonder which office you ended in,
If the stars are hidden by the city,
                   and you sometimes get lonely.