he’s a drunk, symmetrically wailing,
an Am-Dram soloist missing a note,
he’s lashing it, belting it out for the Tempest
in Prospero’s coat.
Seldom polite but full of himself;
upstaging, rampaging, a gravity pull
and his mouth is more open that any old sorcerer
or Titanic’s hull.
But open your eyes, look out at a dawning;
into soft-belly forces, even a taste
of whale-song, tree-root, hyena laughing,
a heart in a race …
… and embrace.