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

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