the vagabond , his emporium
lays down his orphaned head
a surrealistic pillow of pandemonium
a wrong note seals his fate
this night of winds enormous .
see his bones with softest hand
scattering peace to ten Peruvian mares
breaking hay bales upon this land .
do you really exist
did I really see you that day
was it the flash of the bulb or where
senseless scribbles of pencil lay .
the vagabond , his performance
opens a bottle of cheap wine
a renaissance of playing cards importance
the ace of hearts laid out on paper wrap
this dusk of summer solstice , a waning chorus .
see his eyes ,unlike Chopins nocturnes , a dreams disaster
he sits nere turning his head on a delicate unshaven neck
a song of one long crescendo sighing from the pasture .
do you really exist
did I really see you that day
was it the flash of the bulb or where
senseless scribbles of pencil lay .
the vagabond , his Europa
stands staring at voices in the barn
the moon of Jupiter quiets his colt Lakota
a sweet note , the Garden of Allah where
all horses talk keeping secrets , digging up diamonds
with no alliance of violence to capture
the peace of their king , the son of Zeus
the vagabond with wounded fracture .
do you really exist
did I really see you that day
was it the flash of the bulb or where
senseless scribbles of pencil lay .
did you tell me what they said
the horses surrounding you with warmth for bed .
