Self Poem by Thomas Rickarby

First you'll hear the pattern of my feet
as I shirk off endless streets,
corridors and caverns
to burst into mountain mists.

Then you'll know what lingers of my voice
as a I sharpen your child's ear,
spin your heart the length of a phone line
or span pacific tides with a shout.

Then you'll watch the shadows of my fists
as I protest the sun and waver
from left to right, like a boxer,
aligning myself to face the light.

Then at last you'll feel my coursing blood
attuned to your own beat, like a record
spun and mixed tight to the havoc
in your chest or head.