Page 138

By Jack Joseph Smith

140 in an imoofent call to beckon meg Sin was so sweets Maybe a touch for mes Syn home and tell the worlds I don't cares Gone now is the softness, and I still haven't been all the ways The lingering is such a passive hurt, Oven there the grass is bendings it waits for we to roll upon’ Over they is a glimpse of the Sunj cover your ears and rung Thoough the early sgmg of birds’ wakings I can't hear thems I'm of my ways There was the moon, Light is causing it to leave meg It is my solice, when Tam walking to the dark sidey Where have I not danced in blacks I will do a turns 4n ovation please, I will thank you with my black gloves, A long silk scarf; White as a: ewan, to curtsy to, A a an done in the deep- est blue, with a collar black to show yous that it is the oppisite of mes My jeans are frayedy Father abxn knows me as a dying man of the cloth; But fancy are my black shoess I need them for my walking, I take my hands away from my ears and scream to you! O,t there; I wish for you 0 mountains to never lose your green} Kennedy forest is moving like it used tos In the wind; In the wanting winds The calm breeze still touches my hair in a way that makes my cheeks laughs The air is packed with love, and I will take it with me, My head is tight, so I will turn " again and agai and ageing Into dust, spinning up to where the wind is still as the | Syumer when it stops, and waits for you to watchs’ This time, nothing will be in i my dreamse The sky will embrace me with the music I have been waiting fors: Or will j I mock love to its knees? My mother is so sad about me,.and she dosen't know whys. ‘ My blood is rumning cold, when I am rambling through my barren desires; But my mind : pretends, that it is shouting with heats.My dreams, my dreams; The rich girl; she ! is so pretty, Her passion is sincere, She has warmed me so on Friday nights; Her sweater soft’ and her face light with her children joys They all pretend to never ‘ kmows' She is strong to still have love within hers I Imow the cry of a womens For !

Original Scan

Page 138

AI Interpretation

GPT

On the ridge the narrator slips into a lush self-address about black clothes, moonlight, green mountains, his grieving mother, and the rich girl who still warms him, trying to carry the morning air and love through his barren desires.

The voice becomes theatrical here, almost costumed, as if black gloves and scarf could give shape to inner ruin. Yet the tenderness toward the mountains, the mother, and the rich girl keeps breaking through the pose, which makes the lyricism feel wounded rather than merely decorative.

Claude

Walking the ridge he imagines the moon's exit as his solace, the black-silk-scarf-and-blackest-blue dance of grief, Kennedy forest still moving like it used to, and the mother who is so sad about him and does not know why.