He weighs the world in feathers
hangs nickel moons from a sill
and measures love
tooth-by-tooth in a smile.
He haunts that turnstile place
where four fine candles spire above the ice
to first illumine beyond his wishful breath,
where pioneer steps outpace
our dated anecdotes.
Stories become his own,
and he claims the lonely avatar
who wears his face in the mirror.
Drifting within the dreaded
estuaries of his becoming,
he is now more fresh than brackish
and he owns a lifetime
in which to forget it all.