He smiled at me then,
from across the wall of his jungle hide-away.
He had scribbled on the wall
with paints and inks
and foretold of years and
years to come.

His brilliant cloths were radiant indeed
and would have fought
the sun’s brilliance
in fairer weather.
But he was no fighter,
nor killer nor
prophet of doom; his words
were soft and pleasant:

I was not going to die,
he said.

My world is not done spinning.