Long, stringy black hair in a middle part.
Wizard’s beard. An old, lavender cape taking on light
as he floats along amid
clouds and the clattering of dusky evening
To the local scourge he’s just a shoemaker.
They don’t care about his view from the sky,
the Gates of the Paradisiacal
or the sacred portals of his electromagnetic
wherein resides the Cumaean Sibyl in her virgin apparel
while surrounded by shoals
of cloud-eating purple
high voltage wires, stargazer lilies and wild orange trees.
They don’t want to know
What concerns them are the practical
things: bread, candle-stubs,
a clear and definitive
statement: he makes shoes.
Everything else about him is fuss.