Oh, to that man who will come
split inside the Apolline.
Oh, to the onlookers
each one- whether salty pepper or
wet cement
match dim eyes and laugh lines
in mathematical ways
they wait for dinner.

they’re givers- I
unwrapped and
watched through grey pipes
No standing under.
knowing that thing
pretends to see me, hear me
doesn’t here see itself.

perhaps a musical man
pondering the notes
of my breaths.
Applying the theories
but not standing straight.
or a written man only
walking on the cracks
thinking of the sentences,
Sentences-
I can’t finish-
can’t finish-
finish for him.