I walked barefoot last night
and the concrete was now rough
now smooth alternating in
change and constancy in time
and rhythm.
I am made a man of many sides
a prism to catch and throw and
break the light and in all things
I am a hunger.
Have we a desert without prophets?
Have we a voice without words?
I walked barefoot last night to the
sound of crickets and the concrete
was cracked but I did not feel it.
