I speak this poem of curfew and prophets

In praise of I, the smoke leaving the chimney.

I praise my sunny skin, my sharp eyed vision,

the breeze of hair above my scalp.

I praise my tall triumph.

No more the great language I speak;

Laughter covers the pining trees,

as I parachute through life’s obstacles.

But I catch a glimpse of unimportance —

Vacuums full of worry:

corruption is a candle;

There is more uneasy than calm in life.

Between the cuts, I squint knowledge.

We are ours and none to share.

It is the well known I.

I hear whistles of fragments and

I am who I trust.