Glaringly, I am old.
And the canyon does not visit
me anymore.
As I am a boy of longer isles,
stranger tides,
in trusting the music for its sap
to fall and to trickle
like the drained
blood of the leaves:
it feeds us well.
I hang from older vines.
I am visited by a gentleman in
dreams: he tells me
I am oyster and the wine,
and all alone, forsaken,
and therefore sacred.
He wears gloves and he seems
to have all the time beyond our
World and yet
seems purposed in spite of this.
I weigh his answers indefinitely.
Having washed up upon the
island
of my soul, I am vagrant, am
tired,
but an answer will do,
be it useless, or all that is wrong:
for I simply need my rest,
and I should kill
to have it visit me.
12/09/2016
Richmond