Distances

How can one run out of
the sun, moon, and the rain?
The poet assures himself,
sitting by the quay
drenched in mud and paper
beginning to trash his voice
(in split-syllables of cry).
Just then he sights
a stripling playing flute
to the passing flamingos
in broken silences
of the vehement tide.

He pounces on the artist
staging a relentless ballet of fingers
in staid, stainless afternoon
over his clumsy shadow.
"What inspires you to play
against the writhe of Boiling May?
Her memories! Where are they?
Stranded on the roads that have drifted
her away?"

And explains the thirsty urchin
in half-notes of composite smiles –
about her memories resident
in the bounties of his fist,
of bridges built to jump
from one finger to another,
of a fragrance hidden behind
the minarets of his collar –
Occurring and recurring
like melody in a tome,
bringing him her chuckles
through carriages of love.