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Poem (for a Polsih bus) A stranger to journeys I fish towards the rear in morning light. I feed on some angry old titan's clear face. It may move me towards history, a no place where horsemen ride deceptive, and the dark mood of the ocean (losing to panic) hammers a limp into my gait. Still surfacing now and then in ophelic fashion is the idea of a cloister, a way of blowing rain into the wind while hoping for a flood to call my own. And while my mind busily constructs itself, the nether regions are a fairground besieged, an unsettling tableau for the blind eye, a blindness rearing its head out of the sad spring. In the twilight of grinding joints, I sing, set up, to pledge intoxication. My face in those sails, with my history elsewhere. My father was born in a wooden house in the provinces of poems. A rider from a rusty Camelot won through pity, sleepy, hanging his flag with penance. Who has become larger than the wooden door? not I. The lurid birds wake riddles when the night is too interested in my chance sympathies.