22/04/2016
a child on the street
it paused to pee.
That was DS in your figure, child
chromosonal misdemeanour
broadly flat, on your face.
Impatience was your guardian
she fretted to catch the train of crowd
eager to be lost in the surge
of peoples
where you would be nondescript
less visible
the mob was better than this blank
street where disembodied eyes
mutely peered through dark slits.
But you took your time, didn’t you?
savouring each drop of
brine squirted from your
puerile parsimony
drowning the sands
by your feet
you would, like Jesus, scribble figures in the wetted dirt
for you had seen it, the splendour of beauty
the world has always misdeemed.