Well it's six o'clock in Oakland and the sun is full of wine I say, it's six o'clock in Oakland and the sun is red with wine We buried you this morning, baby in the shadow of a vine
Well, they told you of the sickness almost eighteen months ago
I lift—lift you five States away your glass, Wide of this bar you never graced, where none Ever I know came, where what work is done Even by these men I know not, where a brass Police-car sign peers in, wet strange cars pass, Soiled hangs the rag of day out over this town, A juke-box brains air where I drink alone, The spruce barkeep sports a toupee alas—
For that you never acknowledged me, I acknowledge the spring’s yellow detail, the every drop of rain, the anonymous unacknowledged men and women. The shine as it glitters in our child’s wild eyes, one o’clock at night. This river, this city, the years of the shadow on the delicate skin of my hand, moving in time.
What way does the wind come? What way does he go? He rides over the water, and over the snow, Through wood, and through vale; and o’er rocky height, Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight; He tosses about in every bare tree, As, if you look up, you plainly may see; But how he will come, and whither he goes, There’s never a scholar in England knows.
When the lights come on at five o'clock on street corners That is Evolution by the bureau of power, That is a fine mechanic dealing in futures: For the sky is wide and warm upon that hour.
The winter evening settles down With smell of steaks in passageways. Six o’clock. The burnt-out ends of smoky days. And now a gusty shower wraps The grimy scraps Of withered leaves about your feet
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