i found a story in the sea
about a man of rain
about a storm-dark stain -
ink poured into blood
and mixed by dead winds
blowing round, trapped, about
a room with no windows
buried in clear sight
of the park.
this man would sing
and he would fall
onto the hills, he'd dissolve
with all hope
on a spotlight, shrunk
to a candle, to a whispering
smoke sewing summer breath
to clear memories of poetry,
in it he was lifted.
he would pick words
for strangers and waltz
with the clouds, taking photos
with eyes and a pencil,
and he sold 'em for the price
of a smile,
or a sadness.
he was old, greying, so worn,
and yet the birds slept beside
him and people grew young
in his presence. he passed
his gifts from empty pockets,
he filled hearts with loose string,
the change he begged was a curious thing,
a brave dream of chance, of everyone
joining hands rich with
the streets he shined clean
like a rain, where he walked alone,
and one day died, lain like an angel
staring up at the sky, another buried
with a view of the park.
i walked against sea,
grey clouds covered me,
lured by a hum, like a breath
in a bottle, i came to this man
head down to the sand.
he swept about the beach
with a metal contraption,
stopped at my shoes
and cried, "gold!" as a child;
his smile gave right
and i didn't stray sharing eyes,
i asked rather softly what his search
was concerning, and his smile
was gone. he looked to the water
lapping beside us,
he looked at the sky
too covered to see,
looked back at me,
whispering:
"my soul, my soul."