His strangeness lays a comfort
on distant water, too far to name,
too cold to be near.
Wheat fields. Gold stringed faces
stand void of riches like the man;
both weave under winds from
an angry heaven.
Endless dark space above watches
the brim of his hat and dull scratched buttons
on a coat he uses as a blanket.
Sweet visions sing to him at roads end.
A night light of stars hangs loosely above;
a flat bag of soulless rocks
offering no comfort to the deep wells
in his eyes.
Roger Singer 