No Ishmael...
my feet break into stones
but are deaf
to their soliloquies
and green thick as rain
is saying something
rushing in the wind's speech
but these senses are too selfish refuse to move
having been
silent in my ideas
here I am
beneath starry museums
stumbling
in a drift of skin collecting
the noise
of night like a fist of flies
with black tongues
while buses and cars
wave a semaphore of lights
past the coloured trees
shrunk like pages
of ancient mumbling
creak and indecipherable
standing
in the dark throat
of the world as
frog and cricket chants
a necklace of sound
alien and illiterate
to this man
of the city wilderness