I turn trickster because the past is still here,
your forgetting you've forgotten responsible
for a way of un writing history until
the sickly epiphany draws a joyful no colour
all through the invisible in the lost visible.
As trickster I ask makeshift questions
that are their own answers & so
offer no relief from the inconvenience
of that inconvenient seeing
the worn rail against.
God was Here said the red red robin
to the black black crow -
God was here & graffitti is holy.
I stand in holey boots
on the river's edge
skipping the perfect stones you sent me
so sure someone else should be throwing them.
& the sound of nothing less startling
than the song