Barrett

Sometimes
I understand
you, Syd--
at least
I think I do.
I've seen
the photos:
you, a guitar,
a naked girl,
the three of you
in a naked flat,
or nearly,
mattress on
the bare floor,
ashtray, bottle,
cosmic rays
storming
the windows.
You stare
into the lens,
sullenly void,
man retreating,
receding, really,
into an asterisk
on an album's
liner notes,
and as I hold
that album,
I realize
that was it,
nothing more
needed, so
you could
excuse yourself,
recluse yourself,
get bald, fat,
fade to legend,
early in the '70s,
when both of us
were young,
and mad,
and so often
laughing
at nothing.