Whitman Sleeps Tonight

There is no sleep so sublime
as Whitman, under a tree
in Brooklyn, I dream
of my grandfather

fresh cut grass,
two cycle engine oil
and nostalgia.
Childhood

spent on the front porch,
chewing on sprigs of birch
pine needles in the fall.
The redolence of spring

mingling autumnal decay

the smell of impotence,
the taste eternal.