one challenging brown stain, like
a snowflake in its uniqueness & sure
unremarkability; also those flying specks
that dot dot the universe have come to
rest across the poet’s face: he smokes
& glares downward into some grumpy
lines of verse. i chose to put the volume
under plastic after months of abuse
in a satchel, carried unread through
a million nights of drinks & walking
& ventures, preserving for ever
(amidst the mandatory backcover
‘no-one before in the english language’
stuff) a short, thick, alien hair.
.
