I am entering and leaving rooms; In murals that embellish the walls Of various markets. Some are political Slogans, others show the daily acts; birth circling back into death, on cat paws, charting an elusive sleep.

Each mural mark the divisions, This part of me against the rest; Left against right, a sleepwalker’s Tug of war. All that is required

Is for someone to touch me tonight. If not in the name of love or lust, then because I am an warm object, A round stone, a curious trinket, A talisman for these swift years.

These eyes, angled jaw, these big lips, Mark what the astrological charts already show; a marked need for love. I am spinning around a strung wire, a wet cloth absorbing the rain, gaining weight; ever receding, never drying.

Waiting for some hand which will reach to provide the only acceptable heat,holding me against a body to dry. And then to wear like an inexpensive shirt, old and threadbare, finally reconciled into a fixed mural, one that shows us in a single and deep coiled sleep!