Sonnet for Tim Buckley

In poppies sleeps the bard eternally.
Now what remains? Can we then estimate?
His incantations still are heard, and see,
Believing souls in these still conflagrate!
   The tender fierceness of a passion fleshed
   In loving, conquering, confusing need;
   He sang of sticky heats of love where threshed
   Are youthful souls by evanescent deeds.
The lovers crossed and crossing on their way
Who always say goodbye are with him there:
We transients. We see undone the play
Of prisoners we are, dissolved in care.
   He sleeps in poppies, carried on the wind;
   I ride with them atop Oblivion.