He walked with a heavy step
like a giant over autumn leaves.
His eyes were hard on the path,
avoiding dead ends and blind corners.
He murmurs prophecies, steamed to the
surface from past vowels
wasted on youth. His strength is
formed strongly in posture and self
confidence; pillars stretching over
years. He enjoys gray moon shadows
and the warmth of an August sun.
His clothes are standard, outliving fads
and the style of waste. He bends through
the day, becoming the spinoff of his own
continuation.
Roger Singer 