You are quite a thing, as a black crow caws
A big man vertically split by mind-thought
In sky rings of white smoke, falling deeply
In love, at times, with just being beautiful.
Your everyman touches on your raw nerves,
Street men that are not yet your real people.
These are the phantoms that walk the edge
Trying not to fall off with the hems of lungis
In their hands, in walking in slippered feet.
Their walking sleep evokes big time yawns.
You have soft dreams of mirrors that show
Big time visions of you, in the grand walk
It is the lungis held by the hand in the street
That makes the world, in the street corners
And the mongrel that follows you by the lake.
It is they who make your literature for you.