The World Is Incomplete

Born on the lion-crowned heights of summer,

I fell into a season of rich decay.


I don’t know why, but I can remember

Conversations I had many years ago,-

Ordinary conversations, in all kinds of places-

Seeming now prophetic and uncanny…


I love the nowhereness of motorways,

Being a direction and nothing more,

A world of signs, seen through the windscreen,

Points on a map.

In the lonely service station,

I pay in strange currency,

And move on.


English, impure tongue of the semi-savage,

My coarse blood’s birthright,

Pun these bones into extinction

With extremes of delight.


Solitary hitchhiker on the back roads of life,

I follow the sun,

Awaiting my next ride.