Slowly the green hair of his beard
comes down to the ground
He looks out and observes the land
through black and fog
Two crowds with two signs
Two kinds of one line
Are ghosts that measure
can never resemble the black grass
The black grass on the ground
The black grass on the ground
The line on the black grass on the ground
is ignorable by the slow sweep of the hand
American philosopher stands resurrected
with his hand in the air
a rent look of a face
something that isn't there
If I know your sect
I predict your thoughts
Man of letters stands his arms dangled to the side
If I wrote to my true capabilities
it would be too much for you to bear
These thoughts can be wagered
and thought too much of
Two men walk on a bridge
The light chuffing of their feet
© 2007 Steven Dube
is a writer of poetry, fiction, and nonfiction, and an avid moviegoer. He lives in New York City.
