A portrait

A smooth ball of a face has deep furroughs
Of hair-like memories and looks at the wall
Proving it all wrong, the way the world behind
Seems to be moving on its rotor, as if there is
Another way, as if stars are born differently

When there is no moon, only a sun after rain
And a train relentlessly flows on its tracks
The smoothness of moon’s face slips away
A smile vanishing all the time behind the hill.

A sketch would only be a concept ,an outline
With no deathlike finality of the figure filling it
A hollow will fill it eminently,we hollow men
Like a pot-head stuffed stick man in the crop
Shooing away his birds shitting on pot-head
His over-sized shirt balloons with much wind.


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