As time is a line of the beats Of your heart counting down, reserve Me a number of places in that queue; To love with chivalry as Don Quxiote Did [or as Sancho did for his ass] On my journey of unravelling loops.
To Lay my cloak Of a body face Down on a street in the rain to save you from the mud; Rather than to love in the dark As a child does for the light.
It’s a eggshell day. He stares at the concrete Speckled it is Like a sea-bird’s produce Worn and showing its grain. The white glares when above The sky is blue
and he feels the hard surface in his bones.
Now the sky is orange and black. The product of a kiln Above the pines. This time his eyes hurt from consumed wood And he looks with watering eyes At the charred remains And the flames But his thoughts are frozen Stuck in the attempt to remember A word for those orange dying specks
and he feels his socks will almost burn.
Here the sky is truly black It’s a few years back And he watches the crash Of the water - whatchamacallit - Against the front of the ferry. Leaning over the rail He tries hard to keep his eyes peering Through the stiff wind and salty spray At the dark hills Mulching krill. People below lay down - no seats - And hope they will not hurl But a lone woman joins him in Joy at the storm; Later they share few words And to him she doesn’t sound foreign at all Then she is gone
and he’s sick tying the right knot to keep feet snug while he thinks about Godzown.