I remember Jim Carroll serenading us with his needle
sharp poems from the bottom of Foss Hill.
I remember Spring Fling 1984.
(Or, was it 1983?)
Spotting the old observatory
crowning the top, he snarls
at our impossibly young distracted selves:
You can all go look at the fuckin’ stars.
Some loudmouth students reply:
Just wait till nightfall, Jim. Just wait.
All I catch is
I remember shadow echoes
and the storms they cause crashing around me
by the time I hop on the back
of the last motorcycle I will ever ride.
Racing downhill in the dark
spitting out grass, dirt, and famous feathers.