For the ghosts of they who passed by the night before by Jonathan Beale

I am not a silent poet

Early SundayMorning 1930 by Edward Hopper

You don’t see us

Along life’s rails

The sleepers and paths

That veers away from

The split infinite.

Of the fire and

Passed by; under the window’s

Eyes, closed on the world.

The rats and foxes

On night maneuverers.

You cannot see them in doorways

Sanctuaries of the bum.

v. absenteeists.

Words that smooth and caress

All lovers are blind except for Echo –

A cast in these vast stone artefacts.

These places to store…

Created for building & making.

And ‘no’ not us, we’re the bums – lost, strayed.

Just the bums invisible, yet there.

There is reason. There must be. Reason!

Kant’s mind occupied him a lifetime

Sorting those colossal pieces of,

Bishop & knight …

We feel – the fork

No address: no, no, no,

Begging breeds, no ingenuity

The cream always finds

The way up – the wise will

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