Sugarman

He talks with his shoulders taut,

sharpened eyes, amberescent and gold

like the tales told on

the sun,

They study me thorough and

treat me holy like the trees, by my

braided roots and

branded old routines, like

brail to the old blind man,

I’ll be the book he reads in the

short August evenings

and the wool

that he wears in the dark.