I graze my tongue among the cracks on the floor like braille;
I love the jagged experience of chaos. New suns spring past
the window, pitching shadow bars across the concrete. Cards? the guards
sometimes ask, hunger in their eyes for escape. No, today the ants have moved
right here the dirt and it is changing, yes. Pavement wrinkles
like water–bugs fitting their transit to its ruptures–
and I sit–for twenty years I observe–like an alien–the light running by
in rectangles—ashes and dust and grime shifting –my mouth growing
dry behind my beard. How I breathe to understand the life that breaks
beneath my feet! And still I have no roots. And still my mind
wanders–even as these sordid sensations make me hard.
