In cubic air

 

An illusionist is enclosed

In a block of ice

In the middle of Times Square

For three days

Around him men sit

Throwing rugby balls

At each other’s heads.

 

I watch them from a distance

And have to deal with that

Writing is theft, and that

Also Dylan is a moralist

Without any escape.

 

One day I will drive

A motorcycle

Straight through them

Go nowhere

And for that year

Say nothing.

 

Severely wounded Sage

Can I bring you some hope?

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