In sand, next to the
Brick road to the sea,
A man lays a towel down
And sits heavily.
Indefinite thoughts
Drew him to the floor;
Music had been swirling,
But not anymore.
It’s more like a drone now:
Created, obtuse.
It’s humming around him
In clocks and in shoes.
The sand and the road
Are boasted by men
And treasured by women
And weary to him.
He’s still playing Kahan.
The album repeats,
A noiseless cacophony
Unknown to its beat.
He’s still by the road.
The album repeats,
A wispy ungodliness
Wandering free.
At random a chord stirs
His heart out of sand;
A breeze brushes through him
From ocean-hid lands.
The road stretches on still,
And he remains prone,
Searching the meaning of
The things he has known.
The sea stretches out still,
Indefinitely,
But his mind has turned to
The man he may be.