Tittle on the drum. A seated figure
at a desk from the back. A ten shun.
A tube of dust. Descending steps. In
sum. It's. It's the way they're always
"they" and never ever ever. Ever.

Plant your feet on the ground as the
basis evaporates in a blur of academic
backchat/I think I/Got that? Turn round.
As if as if as if ... The point of the
story, the point of all his little stories
was, note, poor me.

As if the running could ever stop anyway,
each sour step collecting bitterness at each
failure to pause to close the spaces between
things and their settings, selfish, lazy, blind,
deaf, never growing up, never wanting to,
even their own children sacrificed to
particularly their own children sacrificed to
this ego-dark, this maw. Is the point.
How do you feel about that? Close the book.

Daystar on a branchtip, raindrop holding in.
They'll come, they'll succor and lay siege,
furtive and uninvited in the early hours,
vanishing in a cloud of ionized futures busy
under the sun beginning. Dry sticks, foot
prints in the dust.

(A) Walk away, and their weapons are gone;
laugh at yourself (B) and they bury themselves
in their muck. Let everything, as it
happens, (C) happen between brackets, and the
brackets (dreaming) bulge, skip, loop.

The sun block the moon; the night block the day;
winter-spring-summer block the autumn top; tap trowel,
scrape. The gap between the footsteps on the stoep.