Poetry at Sangam




I came out of myself, was the river in the middle of the old way
of the road, the third movement, a moving van, a targeted thing,

gossamer wing, the last to fire on the smoking man. Go fiddle
with your days if you can, until you break a string. I was giddy,

grown relatively fat, though measureless to myself, on a high
shelf, but toppling; I fell in love most days, gaily, many ways;

floated like heat haze; broke laws like others gauze; runners ran
through the tape of my dreams. Was head of the department of looms;

I ran from hall to hall patterning rooms; was a shoe-gaze instrumental.
They could have put me down as mental if they’d caught me then.

But I was so alone in the music of dreamy unstoppable procession
of being forgotten; a shoe in the back; coin under the shoe; more me

than you, but less of me than no one at all; the sigh before the squall;
breath before the rattle; universal mindless sputtering endless prattle.