The Words Are Like Running Steps

The pencil light comes in on an angle

I am not sure which version it is

Who its author is

Its bright- sunlight

I see no fish in it, no liquid apple core

No moving dreams of African landscape

It is perhaps the spine of a book left unwritten

Or the rough gravel of Auden’s drive

Is it I the man who raped his guardian angel

Who severed the employed wings and learnt to walk

Or is it I the man who looked to the image of God

And masturbated thinking of the blue collar

The words are like running steps

The words are like running steps

The words are like running steps

The words are like running steps

Close your eyes and imagine what ever you want

You don’t need to see the world

You don’t need the world to see you

The world has closed its eyes

And your poem is what it heard

Like running up a grass covered slope

To get to the top to see the world

To see the clouds and to think of the ‘?’

Again comes the light

Up and around

Long and straight like a naked man

Posing on a rock

Quietly squinting at the artist

Remembering a telephone conversation

But there are no answers here

And there is no point

Merely a thought of a young man

Sitting, watching, playing with words

As the sun lays its beams upon his rug

And he thinks of liquid apple cores

A kiss

And landscapes of Africa’s night