?, no. 6

there seems to be a man, sitting at my feet, huddled
in my shadow, speaking strangely and breathing in
a way that's backward and can not give him life, can

not give him comfort, and when i move, he does not
leave me, he is not discarded but stays within the grayness
that i abandon, and i think him full enwrapped in mutters,

and i wonder where i'll find some solitude, how i'll
gather myself in sleep, and will he find another shelter
when the sun has lost its sweet intrusion, and my shadow

lost into its hiding, or will he sit, where none can find him
and will i feed him tea and biscuits, will he drink my
coffee, at the dawn before i wake, or am i taken by silly

musings, and at the last, become

undone
?