The hobo, seen through willows <br />past my screen, <br />walking shell side of a bayou <br />highway, <br />half his life in a poled bag <br />over his shoulder... <br />beyond, past, away <br />from my screen <br />this cold, slight sunrise <br />morning... <br />and I, seated on old wood, <br />warm, sock-swaddled feet, <br />watch him. <br /> <br />The black bayou water <br />flows past us both... <br />waters of no passage.<br /><br />elysabeth faslund<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/have-you-ever-seen/
