I remember the hair,
the flow of cotton,
the human scent on park grass,
young hairy girlswith high pimpled foreheads
leaning like children
to feed me Oreos,
hair hooked behind gypsy ears
while my small fingers shaped
bird's wings from wet gray clay,
watching, smiling,
(forgetting quickly
that they were dying)
all the soft-spoken
John the Baptist
to an Aquarian Christ
that never came
or perhaps they killed
(because we always
kill our gods)
but either way
the hippies are dead
and I will burn in prayer
on this three-years-eve
before the Aquarian's vessel
is tipped upon us.
- Martin Williams
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