I'm Martin Sheen, I'm Steve McQueen, I'm Jimmy Dean.

Down the sidewalk in the smoky cricket dark,
boots tied loosely and a full moon bang on the money
above the trees, trademarking the metaphors of night,
cool night in late spring speaking fluid incessant haiku
in all the familiar tongues of memory: this moment,
these moments, atoms of creekwater
thoughtlessly renewed in the storm drains,
the borders of my skin dying silently,
becoming a different story, and I
listen with my mouth to it; I am not on the money,
not yet this moon, I am talking up the effortless world
in the painted glove of my speech,
muddying the silent water with thumbs of language
and, knowing this, know also
what spring will keep doing anyway
and am not afraid.