"--------------------------------"

i wonder how long i can follow his lines
the sweeping steady nails, like trains sparks on rails
the lines of your feet, the steady left right left right that makes a straight
and a back, and a forth
and burns into the dust the curve of the familiar

the lines of soft pink blue yellow
that makes up shadows
on the wall when up your stairs
the lines i crawl up there

my lines are never straight
and are sometimes made of dust
and are sometimes a trail of clothes

but the best lines i know
are wherever he goes