It came to be; tufts of time were grazed upon by anteaters who were the     spatial creatures,
       
           You can hear the foliage of time being nibbled away, savoured, never a meal rushed.

            I sit with the leprechauns of the day's thoughts, the storm approaching, clear evidence
       
           God is breathing. Like me, God is a thinking man - thinking in storms, never galvanising.

The television, switched off at moonfall, broadcasts an audible & contented peace,

           Among kingdoms of man-made things, all have their private heroes & recalcitrant hobos.

            I sit and listen to the storm like an awkward student meeting his idol under intellectual mistletoe,

           On the ricepaper of my mind; inscriptions, barely inked, they all speak the language of Place.

The letters are in the correct holes, the bronze napkin ring holds the
soft blue earth,

           Hundreds of people crying suddenly stop. Guilt falls like an avalanche of gulls.

           Squared-off lawns giggle over the gutter's edge, through the night's muted hedgerow,

           I ask an orphan for directions, he points to the wilderness with his spare foot. I follow.


My eyes are bare and my feet feel the moist cicadas and my wings become theirs,

           A thousand people stop crying. They see that Life can go no faster, and love is an unused motor.

           And the sparrow's claw is aware of its purpose, the wind swims between my ribs & whispers...
       
           "I've seen it work before." Memory's from the future; spume of something greater.