}-------{

That man is pretending to be immortal.
His sunglasses are shitstained mirrors.
A wind strikes his jacket and great denim wings
fold on fold burst out behind him.
He lives in a long rented tunnel
and on both open ends
the world clamors to pin him to his name.
He attempts to luxuriate in the wind
that wears his flesh down
onto the shape of his bones.
Soon he will begin to sing
of all the vastness
that never quite reaches him.

}-------{