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


of my soul, I am vagrant, am


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.