ID

He tells me

He knows the street from the stage.

He is not all pose.



Yes, he catches fire sometimes,

Once in a while,

Ignited by a certain darkness of skin

Of the steaming undergrowth

Of tropical forests



Or a mind



Or a face that looks like a mind of a certain kind

With an affinity for crests of waves.

And the lack of it



For things.



And, yes,

He is unable to surrender to that fire

Or lift a finger to quench it



Which has left him so rare

That he is unable to sink



Or float.



He tells me

We are not what we seem



For we are seen by light





And that



Is constantly



Changing.

Forest Dreams

Dappled sunlight of the fragrant forest

measures the highs and lows

Filled in dust coloured leaves.

Sentinel tree trunks lost in lofty dreamy winds.

You begin to get undone



You let things be



You will the shadow of a tiger in every bush

A bird call takes your mind away

to pubertal breezes of love.



You would sleep that afternoon of squirrels,

curled in the after-love of trees,

to whispered ancient stories

floating hillock to swaying hillock.



But then the unseen ocean

Sweeps you to your counting table

To balance your books

of duties

And desires.



Do you dare?