Man with Flame-Tree
His tired eyes grow warm in dawn light.
All of his strange days converge now
at inland seas. Hiking, he sculpts the air,
paring it down to a force to allow him.
Fishing he states, it’s tidal knowledge.
He removes comfort’s haze. He has
the sun in him. On the car’s icy window,
he’ll trace paths between many figures.
Actors whirr through that night far away.
At the centre of maths is a nominal god,
but at a man’s summit, living things.