a something that rattles in a dry gourd
sounding old and thoughtful

with a turn of the wind and a name for the clouds
pointing, my fingers are in rust, ink,
and wood polished with the scent of use

these months move by, they blow by
and now it is late summer and a storm
has passed
it is late summer
and the trees are dark against the sky

when i can escape the present
this very exact minute
when my fingers remember what it is they do
and the whispers of existence
find their way through the sidewalks and electric lights
when i throw it away and, finally, turn and walk
towards something real there by the cliffs
this is when i hear my footsteps and the
air is bright and full

r. budiasky