ON THE MORNING LEONARD COHEN DIED ❋ Brad Casey

a field full of horses
and all their hairs are mirrors
and all the mirrors you
and when they trot
the wind full of wind chimes
kicking up rising
a ground full of embers

and the embers settle
on your body
singing low

it’s four in the morning
the ninth of november

it’s 1970 all over again
and now the horses thin
an empty field Manhattan
the embers now Berlin
body full of acid
body full of gin
body to the brim
full of women

and you
you’re on the pyre
your face is so sweet
you’re on fire
holding seven cisterns
each is Joan of Arc
each is full of water
each is full of soil
whisper Leonard Cohen
deep into the mud
deep into the oil