I cannot say I know him,
he is not like that;
you are known by him
and listen for your name.I have rested in his speech and
allowed his words to flutter in my chest
like expectation.Sometimes he is angry,
his rage tangling in his speech
like flame in a tree.
Then he drops his hands and weeps.
Because of this some say he's mad.
But I think not.
No madman possesses his dignity
or with his possession details
the history of a lie.He touches lepers; reaches
into the teeming crater of a face
and smears his spittle
on what a demon's excrement
has made to rot and stink;
and in the shadow of his withdrawing hand
the face remembers itself as whole.He is a question to us
But he insists that we are, ourselves,
The answer to what he is.
© Copyright Tom Baker 2019- 2008