ejected from the serpent’s

lair,

I scouer the stars for signs of

life,

sustenance an absentee at the

core of self & weary heads need a

rest,

upon the shoulders of giants

a clown-face smiles:

at the pork scratchings

left on yesterday’s

plates;

on empty tables at

Inns now deserted and

bleak,

I scouer the stars for signs of life &

meaning,

hope my first abandonment;

the clown’s smile never

waning