we watched him run from dogs
on his route and return home
with nothing and slapped

they made him swallow okra from a can
roll on the floor with glass and fig leaves
and he grew small inside banana skin

muttered fireflies riding
swiftly the shapes of dragons
traced on paper the weird ideas of loons

this reader of clouds who then and now rides
a news route, closes the door, and in some
gray dungeon bubbles rise in glowing tubes

keeps his dead things close
and the doors closed at midnight
the curtain drops when we look his way