A visionary bowler,
gone down by Long Boy’s Lane,
a casually bitter stroller,
a roller with the strain,

went dancing dark through night-town
(suggesting day was done),
fell flat onto the sidewalk
hardly lost but barely won.

The night was to the bowler
as pig is to the ham –
the inside/out of bowler,
the darkness in his hand.

The bowler wanted sky-town;
he stepped into the bars.
He felt the night crawl into him
and dreamt the dreaming stars.

The bowler thought of lovely hair,
of hair in which he cried.
His eyes could see the perfect air –
that air that moves the sky.

The bowler’s drunken sun-up,
the sky with perfect rain –
the bowler grips his planet,
this bowler’s earthly lane.

If gods sing to the bowler,
they toast a bitter cup.
When he is looking down from stars
they tell him to look up.

The moonlight, often striking,
as down by Long Boy’s Lane,
the bowler drinks the morning
with vision, and in rain.