I did not know it was my last voyage
        down the long, beloved land.
        All the petals fell; I did not hear them.
        The marble grieved graves were passed with no compassion.
        It was a deaf journey into blindness
        lashing my black river of red chariot
        through bands of angels fleeing me.
        Impaled on stone drenched hills were unseen miles of Christ
        as I flowed down Lincoln's valley for the last time.
        I attended the death of innocence
        but did not hear the rattle.

        January 10, 1971