Walkabout

You would think that I would have a handle on this
Based as I am in no space, with no story but the road
But those who let loose in raves surrounded for miles
By pavements, they think that they can achieve
That state, there, in Clubs in the basements of high-rises.
Maybe they know more about this than the lion in the zoo.
These faces come and go, family is far flung across
The corners of the country, come together in years
Weddings births funerals, with what to talk about
In those moments? my mailbox has a better story.
Ghan-buri-ghan knows of ways lost to other men
And he knows the songs of plants and their ken
He’ll sing them softly in what looks like sleeping
In hearing I know there’s no difference between this
And dreaming