Drawing “x’s” through the days in his journal
And cutting out pictures of faces from the obituary,
Matt withdraws currency from a bank no one recognizes,
From a teller no one sees
From a time that folded in upon itself

But this is his mission – deemed a routine by some,
Mocked by others as trite and hopeless –

Yet Matt sees none of this:

“Roll down your window sill, close the curtain,” he says,
“And descend down the stairs and into the field,
So I can see all of you in plan view.”

But will they accept this offer?

Will they make a bargain with this frail night guardsman,
Plucking cherries off a withered vine,
Arranging them on a table, his breath icy smoke, barefoot,
Tiptoeing lest he awake the slumbering millions emblazoned in light?

by the IOD