They called him The Man, He had to be monogrammed. They- for he had none, none his own, no name given. Fixedly singular A Thousand and Forty-nine, The man trudged into The New Cosmos With Arrowheads and Hand-axes, A perfect stranger. Hair coiled on this head He took with him to his playground- A bow and a quiver of five arrows, Tobacco, Three rings And flakes of stone.
A Hundred and Eight Praised by struggle
Devoted to a civilization
When the music stops I shan't exist as I do. Then the notes flow, Stringing pieces of the soul, Beset above and beneath the line of prudence, Into a boundless mosaic- Growing fractally, rising to crescendo as life-
as I, Catching the sun, outshining it-
Only to shatter with the silence and
lay as ember
as I.
I close my lids for your face to appear Not as a flash But a slow-spread In the absolute void of space, with The origin burst of flesh and color at the stretch between your brow And shuttered eye, thereupon painting the profusion of your face like Spilt water on a floor-tile.
