An Englishman is crossing lovers' stars
While an old black is crooning in twelve bars.
One will go insane, rambling of the afterlife
While the other tells tales of all his strife.
Both will imagine resolutions,
And fancy having real solid existential solutions.

One will hear Globes of applause--
The other, a howling wind and a dog's scratching paws.

Both will lose their breath
For that perfect, momentary finger-touch with God,
That moment of absolute life--almost death.
They will walk in the dusty cold until the stage sweat dries
Until that very last ring of that chord dies.

They will pass an apple orchard
With one giant dead tree
And, pausing to each other, think
"That could be me."

They will come to a city that is one leviathan crowd
And, ears ringing, eyes sore from lit signs,
Think, "Beautiful, but too loud,
And too many straight lines."

They will come to a dread sea,
The deepest waters of sapphire doubt, so dark and so free--
In its freedom so dangerous, in its danger so far--
They will sail across on the black's ancient guitar
And, to live, drink the ink from the Anglo's black jar.

Crusted with brine and sick with black tongues,
They will stand up on the beach
And breathe the water from their lungs.
Then under the shade of palms, having weathered all manner of storm,
Gaining his breath, sitting with the Anglo,
The black will elucidate a form:

"The roar of the crowd and the storm of their claps;
The yelps of my dog, the rain's tinny roof-taps;
The cold breeze of our nights and the heat of the stage--
How much that orchard, this world, softens my rage--
The glow of the titanic city signs that tell lies,
I see it again in the people's burning or dying eyes:
Their loneliness distilled and flowing in the waves of the oceans,
Their hearts and the waters swaying with stellar motions.
In all this I see One, that cannot be made rhyme,
Nor set down in words or written in lines;
It is far too sublime.
Haha, not even by you, who sucks on sweet limes."

The Englishman laughed too, at the black's comment so sly:
"My words, sir, are always a lie,
But, as with life, every word, each like a moment, is worth the try."