The Interloper

His hands are worn smooth they work in the soft ether of his thoughts, only two fingertips plunge to earth and peck at a world he hardly knows. His poetry is sea soaked and spattered with English fishing villages where he first learned to interpret waves and the collected works of kelp and rockpools. As he grows older he explores places he has never set foot upon, Ulan Batur, Vladivostok, Harbin, these are grey places that bloom in summer when fur hats are taken off. He was born in a grey ghetto and knows the power of cherry blossoms. He believes in spirit animals, prays to owls whenever a death wish visits him. No doubt he was born into the wrong time, but he makes the best of all places that have survived, He has come to terms with situation and circumstance, though humankind never fails to disappoint. Curiosity prevails though, he still visits without invitation, takes notes, and sneaks in wherever a window opens.