Movement in time blurs the speed
of light; my eyes can’t keep up with the past.
I’ll stand ever the hero, fly into battle
grab leaves and grain here, mushrooms
there. Hear the music, solid as oak trees,
like rented witchcraft spelling out reality,
settling old stories in new plans, underpinning
foundations. Grate skin from your knuckles
into soup – this magical anarchy is sensible
sensibility, honesty that’s godly, whole
as pale cabbage, packed tight, white at heart.
Courage is crisp, straight as a javelin.