Speaking in rivulet languages –
the ignoble clumsy cant of tribes –
the seekers and enforcers,
limn their stony walls of minds.
Tracing my thorny finger
across a window stained with dust,
through the dirt and through the lace,
across a sky deep stained with rust.
I ask: Should I were a one to join
with them? Or them! Or them –
so many things would simply be,
too many more impossibly.
Perhaps a solitude suspended
from tree to tree, a vagrant poet free,
a telegraph from me to you to me,
is better than these uniformed rags I see.