no demon in the desert, but still
he was multitudes, Hyde and Jekyll,
champagne and cigarettes, all
luster and bluster, toil and soil,
in the earth some days and
others, high above,
snagging small plates of small food from bored waiters,
some days, elegant as a winter,
and yet some days, he picks up a couple
burgers on the way home,
to throw for the kids, keep ’em busy while
he cracks open a fresh case. Different days bring
different men from the same body,
like obscure and ancient chemistry,
some things have always been true but
were expressed differently in dead languages.
perhaps there’s something to be learned,
something terrible,
in the recording of all the differences we are.
multitude
