That Man

by Helen Bowell

That man grasps that man’s a pawn,
that dawn’s a handstand and star-fall’s my lawn;
that days fall by glass, sand and landmass stacks that
wash past drawn swans and art and
what a lady says and can’t
and sand-cast brass bands.

That man grasps that man’s an ant.
That man grasps that land’s a lamb

and man’s gravy.

That man’s a vagrant. Walk away.