For Martin

Short stubble
on his neck
like sand from lava,

His shoulders platforms,

A self swallowed in cause,
or made most manifest therein,

In throat tongue spit
the rhythms and heft of grace,
hoarse lilt drawn over the mad many,

Life to the hilt, meaning
death to the mad self, on behalf of
anyone else,

Everyman shoes slap
pavement by the lolling tongues
of dogs and snub
noses of clubs.