song for the forgotten trumpet

Come as a monk
trained to walk
through mountains
of prayer

Come as a dreaded writer
drained by songs
of laughters
and cheers

Come as a lone musician
who lost the way
to put a string back on
the neck of his stick

Come as a wanderer
disappointed by pages
of forgotten presents
of unrealised futures

Come as an instrument
with no master and chain
born in the rain
left in pools of beer

Left in puddles
like the trumpet
in Vienna's flee-market
like the cello
in a Parisian 'marché aux puces'
like the bluesman's guitar
when he left us at far

Left like a song,
on a sidewalk with no tires
disappearing in the pavement
with the shadow-people.


depart in and out
of a region of prose

homes, homes,
for the homeless words
of desired space
for the unspoken

homes, homes,
for the friends
of elsewhere at work
for no countdown.