These roads are umbilical to no body, bearing
But words scattered like paper in wind, seeming
Sterile. My eyes follow your lines that run and run
The road that runs and runs – this onwards, open story
My glance is a peep of light through a pinhole, laying
No claims, a voyeur to less than suffered. There walks
New York’s Atlas with stethoscope and duffel coat, Bresson
-captive, laden with the sérieux of an elegant, cultured weighting
Story told in stasis, a wasteland of words, how should I empathise
With an Eliot-ness ages dead? With Hagar’s Mason Dead long dead?
Book bound, unbound, ornamental this for which I cannot eulogize
Meritless the nothing new of which I yet must speak.
(c) 2011 Richard Ali