He floats
like frizzy cottonwood seeds on a wind that is not really there,
not really.
And light and sound and rain
pass him through-
he is borne on a whim
over the still-living earth
waiting in the wetted hollow
of some behemoth fallen tree,
waiting.

Wistfully wandering
listlessly longing
dogtired daydreamer,
airy apparition,

are you just a moving lucid hallucination,
or is it me who lives in your
imagination?