The Verb Takes a Walk
You must be sleeping
to hear the first steps:
crunching on gravel
outside the front door,
the verb takes a walk.
It is clearing in the east,
clouds roll back before the sun
rising across the page of sky.
Your fingers rattle on the wall,
digging into the soft depths
of what has never been spoken.
The verb ‘is’ marauds the margins of thought,
moving with a great stride
below the windows of farmers
pulling on their overalls.
Roosters deliver the news:
the verb arrives.
Deternining the events of the day,
the stray noises in range of ear,
the verb makes breakfast of the void.
In a garden of blue idiom,
drinking dawn,
the verb reads the papers,
taking in the sights and sound
of the world of its creation.