houts@reed.UUCP (Bill Houts) (03/01/85)
Five foot two with singed hair and arms like white broomsticks-- a Viking still; you could weave in guitar strings song to catch whales. Jarl and juggler: your laughter was ours, round and sharp as oranges. You rode to catch winters of fire, and we rode to follow over bridges of your making. Not for you that gunshot gasp, those tears at 2 A.M. Not for you the bad news of sudden, dark heels on an early doorstep. No. A Viking god unravels rather, his strident voice runs reedy, sounding horns of ruin. Articulate fingers mumble and fret; it is come, the end, complete as the breaking of stone. For us it is no small thing, to stand on the last bridge and weep. We toss wreathes woven of flowers and guilt on a friendship that died when the Serpent bit your skull. -- Bill Houts (a.k.a. Captain Chaos) Cosmic Color Control tektronix!reed!houts "I claim to be the Kleenex reborn."