Art Gephyr


Through a crack in the door,
severe the look of a lumberjack
displaced in the old city.
For years his name unknown as
the last tree felled by his hands
rolled off his forehead and
lodged above his eyes.
Scattered leaves and shoots
collected and smoked high
upon the rooftop gazing down,
where the only stars twinkle
from below before midnight,
and the only green
crisscrosses over his chest,
hiding all but a patch of curls
that hint untamed temptation.
Even as the red blaze
atop his head recedes,
the attraction forever smolders
behind the coolness of his eyes.
The bounty of earth
stiff upon his boots,
overflowing from his table.
The jerked start-stop of a saw
overdone on a spoon of custard
that even scotch-laced veins
fail to mute.
In the company of strangers,
his laconic observations
hint a philosophy that lives
beyond rectangular cuts
of city stone.
Gazing past the canopy of heads,
the cliffs of buildings,
the rivers of cars,
he wonders how
he will survive.