Beggar’s Ride

Ashes have no use for adoration.
The breathless will never desire your love
or warm to your desire for completion.
Scraps of vellum, a voice makes time move
backward, snapshots of blurred strangers attack
the vulnerable. That same bird song rolled
over the sun-scented man on the rock
in eleven dreams. He never seems cold.
Never uncertain. He might be a god,
silent movie icon, philosopher.
A friend of some artist. You know he’s dead.
Without knowing anything else, you’re sure.
If you had chosen the other turn, on that track
he held the one thing you will always lack.


One thought on “Cliché

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