A Scrap of Paper

by Richard Taylor

What ruin is a random hand
across a remnant page, crumpled
in a comer of his writing shed floor?

The penman sent his gang, partial words
all angles to the page, pushing,
tumbling like children out the door,
and none of them a name.

You’ve only found him rowdy
in his heart’s weather and salt breath
tossed wet and tom with sea sound,
and furtive prayer.

He knew a name was just
a place to flee with the riddle of himself
close by his side until they danced
the curve of fingers
into words

cursive with self that comes
to those who now and then will start
alliterating with a glib unfinished wind,
answering its questions
not yet asked.

Being comes hungry, catches a man foot-sprung
and giddy, scribbles left behind
and safe no more.