.	Hymn to the West Side by Kent Taylor if the words for these twisting things were real the writing wouldn't the sun blazes late in february somewhere the birds wait the park down the streeet swings nobody mud over lakewood high booted ankles straight hair everyone looks like folk singers used to look down the line where my wife grew up leather jackets to the waist stetsons for stomping even a store front gospel church where a freeway has vacated a legend lorain at clark a corner earlier rounded secretly waiting for a forbidden girl who now shares my arms and also rounded to basement printing and frenzied excitements as levy and i found each other and the same books that changed our lives if hollo printing knew what libraries now own their transformed paper early that spring 1963 cleveland lit both ends a submerged fusion that surfaced three years later only to find open cannons drunken schaff road railroad trestle voyages gilbert chan's early morning oolong with a burning hand on my thigh and blazing eyes across the table our lives have simplified to boredom pierced randomly by the flash we once lived a lucky life finally to have known instead of never