At night, he walks from foot to foot
along the iambic paths of yore
speeding it up as he goes along
or slowing it down once more.
The more he advances in history
the less the songs are sung
replaced by language and theory
and poems of horses, carts and dung.
And then he sees poems devoid of
all poss- i- ble
sym- me- try
without symmetry or
of the impossibility
to surf the lines for sure.
