June 2, 2012


I stand here like a beggar, stunned
with grief at the loss
of all my previous conceits,
singed at the edges
with dissolution and deceit.

I stand here like a drifter, stopped
with wine and forgetfulness.
My hands are dirty and unsteady,
my clothes are old, my heart is ready
to ditch it all, sell up, move out,
try my luck someplace
where they haven't heard of me,
where my name is worth
no less than nothing.

I stand here like a killer, struck
with my own power and possibility,
and there is blood of my soft rubber
soles, and silence
in my gait. I've always been a master
of the neat retreat. But not

I stand here like a banyan, stuck
in strength and immobility, twisted
by my own nature, roots
sinking deeper, deeper, more
warped with
each century's solemn tick.

No comments: