Did the verse write itself?
Slowly across the page like a stream, urging
across the fields carrying the clouds –
Why, I didn’t of course.
But then I might have;
After that one time I crossed over to the past, bruised
By riots in your favourite street, then again
When I was the boy who undercooked his questions
And stuttered at the fruit seller, maybe not him, but
The boy who ran into the forest and came out alive
Smelling of birdsong and the touch of orchids
He wrote it. All of them did.
Or maybe not.