by Stefanie Bennett
They are wary. A nobody’s in transit
Scantily clad, but his biceps
Bulge and tweak of royal favour.
Risen from mortal metaphor,
He crosses the boulevard
That isn’t there
… Sips permafrost through a glass straw.
The bleak foothills fracture parallel
After-shocks -, and mastic cloud
Only when he unfolds his swag
To lie down with the lamb
Will the town-crier quietly assert:
‘This one’s Zarathustra’.