they asked if they should record him

My utterances he shrugged

                                Why notperhaps  Coud be garbage

But then one mans trash is anothers treasure

they shrugged

                 listened as he began

    each chose their particular passage  noting the tones nuances rhymes rhythm  deepbreath pauses

                                                                                                                 hard

sometimesstartling emphases

they knit their brows stroked their temples worried their lips

                                                                listened  listened   listened

leaning in asif he whispered

he saw

         Am I hard to hear need I speak louder

they shook their heads no

    he chuckled Am I worth a price of admission

they didnt respond

                     unvowed   his words like drops of rain on dry thirsty dirt

gentle washes for tired eyes

massages for exhausted bodies

appealing murmurs to their ears like a songbirds

                                                     like lies they were desperate to believe

his voice came from behind masks they wanted to see

    his words cradled them as breaths or breeze turn colouredthreads of incense  quivered gentle candle flames

listening

          became childlike again  without hurt anger doubt

pinkskinned once more

wideeyed once more

                         gentle

they took him like mothers milk

                                   closed their eyes  suckled

listening they dreamed dreamed dreamed

                                               fantastic fearless dreams

    they should have brought scribes to record him

they didnt have time

0138,  Saturday,  19  1. 92

0947,  Sunday,  17  11. 24