Probability

                                              For Ken Kirkby

We walked toward the painter who sat by the side

of the road and we heard his whisper.

I’ve sung the song of colors I’ve sung pastels and ochre

the chiaroscuro and the oblique, the mesmerising and

the delightful shades: opposite the gross my armory is

the tip of my eternal brush. Nothing of what they have

can hurt me neither arrows can pierce my heart nor bad

word blacken my aura nor evil sight blemish my innocence.

I’ve sung, I’ve stayed diaphanous, people’s tongues

can’t spoil me and in the hands of gross I am but a bad

loot. Chirps of birds I’ve painted, women’s skin I’ve

touched, on the humble table I enjoyed my food, my brush

wealth is reverently laid by the feet of the Eternal.

Nothing of me remains but the softest mist over

the void until I shall return a raindrop to moist roots

of grain, to enter a man’s sperm, to will my rebirth.

Your eyes stop at the turn of the road through mine

see far in my past, further into my future: one fruit,

one flower, a newborn to the next virgin who will

bear me.

I’ve sung, his whisper freed his thought turning probability

into possibility and the rind turned into the heart of a fruit

that was baptized man.