At the Gates of Dawn

For Syd Barrett

He sits cross-legged on the stage
of Glastonbury.
Up high in a tree, lost in a field
of dreams.
Syd, they cry, Syd, are you there?
He can hear the marbles flee.
The hummingbirds sing.
They come to replace his battery;
a peach with hairline fractures
—shoots and arrows. Collapsing
organs rattle like birds in a cage.
They feed him bread in his
yeasty haze (abrasively concave).
Syd, the tax man is here.
Gold leaves fall from his lungs
into half-wrapped cigarettes.
That British stiff upper lip
arrives by night train; take your
bread, Syd—mind how you go.
He’s going home.
He’s going home.
He’s going home.


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