Sad Di Van Morrisons jazzy blue roots find a sax That sounds more than right, that breathes life in rhythms, Lungs and chords that make us all more than the blood And flesh of images' gore--there's no easy way to remember Or forget her scrunched up car in the bowels of the city Of light roaring at midnight...this Sunday morning needs Wallace Stevens to make enough pigeon sense of sunsets For light's last echo to grace something, listening, Something in all of us beyond us, a song of soul will