Song That I Know

I bring in the mail, climb up a tree
to hang out my clothes and I’ve hidden a key
that might let you in and then out beyond me,
as ever the weather may climb––
your choir of souvenir carnival toys,
they shake me awake with a deafening noise
of silence that speaks like the end of my voice
when the song I know leaves me behind
Oh, Absalom, Absalom ––what do you say?
my horses refuse all this work without pay;
I plied them with beads and
I’ve gambled that they
knew nothing of how we live free––
oh, I’ve worn this cape
since the dawning of time,
since long before Easter put blood in our wine;
and still, at the station, they keep me in line
as the song I know sings without me
Now, here come the tramps
from the river below,
with the fire that they made
in their hats as they go,
fuming and seizing the day, though I know
how rarely we find our way home––
for winners get taken apart in their rooms
as cities burn down by the big harvest moon
that rolls through the streets
like a birthday balloon
but the song that I know
carries on