reading the concrete for the prophecy
written in chalk and a man, teacup
and bottle of honey look on
at those who have the time
to give a poet a chance, to tread
upon the messages, separated by the cracks
all of them (the words?) wash away
with the first rain a canoe tumbling
a great fall it crashes first then splinters, sinks
later, finds buoyancy when it dries
and crumbles with age but still makes it ashore
to be spotted by beachcomber gulls
and sand lice hiding in its
cracks only to leap
at the surprise of those who stop to look
for the answer in the path
laid before their naked feet, cracked
heels and waterlogged toes.
