Was a man who follows trails of vapor whispers,
interprets these ghostly compasses, reads smoke and
mirrors, prefers the pitter-patter of blurry rain,
sways to the rhythm of stumbling drums, rubs
prescription lamps, wishes upon Upjohn genies
to forget; is a man who remembers only blotted
smiles in swaths of grass, asks only to accompany
never for directions, presses melted musings onto
pages, phases into sunrises and out of sunsets,
ties the wind to twisted umbrellas, and lets
himself be taken; will be a man who leads
the parades of birds, words will bend and fold
into cursive monuments, and he will claim and
will climb them and will reap the seeds of his travels.

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