It is too late to learn my name.
That was bent with something.
The drums go drumming.
This isn’t quite the same.
I had your sidewalk in line
with the tattoo of your walking
and felt there was some service
to the dignity of your apparition
before the coiffure of the radio
in the backalley where we picnicked
not for chance but more for memory.
It can’t be much more than circus.
The shades and shapes without flower.
The god that had learned of it
and decided not to.
JUNE 2009