Portrait of the Poet

As night’s new choreographed clouds

Roll in and over me

I’m sitting, again,

Whole but alone again

In borrowed skin

Beneath a tree that struggles

To fit beneath the sky.

Between a warm metal heron and

A broken kitchen chair leg

I’m stabbing craziness onto

Poorly seen, second use paper

By stuttering light of gutter candles

With stubborn fingers and a

Well-chewed crayon stub.

Not everything has changed.

Not everything needs to.

25/7/2013