|Accomplished, If Quirky
He can no longer run through prophets
without music. The posters of lovely
shapes painted between uphill fabrics
the Senegalese hats, the Vietnamese ice
sky empties, sweat slicked
hands catch him as he falls. Who's
around? says the bartender you were
talking about. The left hand of God
once ran toward Stalingrad.
Afraid, I ran the other way, changing
trains a hundred times.