I
When he works he is silent,
but his mind is a flame.
Burning
Flaring
His fire spews from pen to page,
his ink a trail of embers.
Lines curl first from heat
-then age-
Stained with ashy fingerprints,
their pyro-enigmatic dance
long lost interpretation.
Hungrily his fingers move
Exhuming
Consuming
as fires do,
till the page is no more,
and the story is through.
He rests.

II
As he roams he is fluid.
Like liquid takes its container’s shape:
He is a city bus.
He is a sidewalk.
How seamlessly through the clouds he flows,
dripping with antici-

pation.

His limbs slosh loosely, back and forth.
Through puddles his muddled sneakers splash.
But now his eyes are misty.
But now his body's cold.
He reaches for his bedroom door,
and now his soul is
still.

III
He shakes his leg and dirt falls loose
in tiny, grudging piles.
He scratches the sand behind his ears
Picks pebbles from his shoes.
Sweeps earth away with brooms.
Heaves boulders round his room.
Crumbling and shaking, his body climbs
into his granite bed.
His eyes are stones weathered by a stream.
They roll sleepily behind his lashes.
Each languid swing
throws puffs of dust,
and now he sleeps
like a rock.