THE FOOL

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.