Saturday, May 21, 2011


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


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