journey song #1:
u district, 8:34 am
they say you are a symptom,
a statistic. But your cloak
is velvet, though it's seen
better days under a warmer sun.
carefully blank against the cold,
your face asks for change, narrow
and long-fingered hand eloquent of
need. Your velvet cloak and sharp
face, fey as some other myth.
Just a blond child in a stolen cloak,
run away from anything, begging
for pot or smack or food, but in this
moment you are ancient and lovely,
eyes speaking of satellites of
distant suns. So, my money
in that graceful hand, you murmur thanks
as I go on into the bright morning,
your own craving eyes blinking, guarded,
in the light of a world nearly new-made.
1/3/98, Vancouver