Is this life the tune of his human hands shake
as they play out the rhythms on his shoulders
in a refrain that comes to nothing more
than the drumming of grand architecture
to the straight on stare of strangers and friends
which melt our story with what now becomes
a man that is buried from within
by the sweet tremble of his hands excused
in order to show his capacity
to feel beyond the present.

For continuum weighs sympathy.

There is no deviation in the baring of these days
that calm this man to the descent of what I so desire.