The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

My waking time
in the narrowest part of the creek
chases spots in the shadows
a streak between bushes
thirsty tongue lapping green opal
cautious cotton on the fallen leaves
the priceless prowler in the morn mist
or in the dusk
the graceful glory
in the hinterland of my heart.

They
        
               Say
    
                          Good

                                      Man

                         Are

                 Hard

                             To

                                     Find

                                              I
    
                                Say
  
                      Maybe

      Perhaps
      
         We’re
                
                Just
          
                       Very

                            Good

                                 At

             Playing

                           Hide

                                   And

                                            Seek.