I wonder through the wandering streets of answers hastily constructed—
Listen for the roots of slow growth tree lines,
Press my ear to the steaming wet black tar pavement that replaced them—
For the spark that sprung our silly string sprinting, ears popping for queues to summon the Amen.
I people my solitude in the plenitude of prophetic opine slate and wait.
Impress your answers onto stone, still they glide through me like my pillow feathers’ shadows dreamed—
But the questions a man raises tell me more than all the scrolls he spews into intersecting streets.
What a man wants to know—if, that is, he wants to know—is the name I know him by.

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