Lace our window
and grace our yard
Here and gone and back again
but gone again
You can’t get around them.
They wheel their kids with a parent’s eyes,
the road and road forever.
We need no camera obscura
to put us
proportionate on the line.
We’re changing shapes whatever we do.
We body out the ghost till we’re sucked on through.
That brief sick hope of escape
is willing grass and the comeliest of tinder.
Where is the rock, the lake?
He’s wide-eyed in a glade
in a smoky wood.
He tries to piss it away, the dirty dream.
And succeeds. The dream isn’t the problem.
Where is your faith, man?
He thinks of all he’s afraid of,
of all the present and future threats.
He checks the clock. And prays. And twists
A man’s a man, though a little slow
till he’s swift as smoke in Idaho.
Now that the dots have flown the dice,
you’d say my odds are even.
But they’re not really gone,
they just walked in –
to the leopard’s back they’re cleavin’!