Body

The walk between towns is three days
at a fair pace — the legs scissor, arms
     counterweight. In the heat
     I fashion a hat out of dust
and the brim wavers, mirage
drawn out of stone and scrub.



Soul

     The high life makes strife
     with the quickening map —
 I lapse into lakes, mountains, plains,
all are a glimpse ravelled into one
     impression as a bird's eye
     warms in its socket.



Body

I see you pass over and hear you
later — your essence a pair
     of streamers dissipating;
     does sleep sleep up there?
Do dreams dream of themselves
at the mercy of meal breaks?



Soul

      Your feet don't touch
      the ground but you think
about a new pair of boots — broken
in, comfortable. The ageing of the slow,
       of the too closely observed,
       the insects in your sleep.



Body

Time changes only as you change
and down here even flesh is more constant —
     but each step is your mile,
     and each mile is a mile less
for the towns I move between
and all I see, hear, touch and taste.



Soul

     But by your own admission
     I am the essence, and I must
get where I am going fast — eternal
I need to keep busy, keep getting the job done.
     I am pressure. I am air
     breathed over and over.