When he was older: and
his bones and skin were more leaden
than they used to be,
He would talk - outloud:
not to me in particular.
Just to the atmosphere underneath
the tree. A backyard canopy,
lime tinged tendrils,
bugs and all.
When he talked: he talked about overflowing oases
within distorted distance.
Sanctuaries, canopies,
shelters - minutes away,
fantastic and fruitful.

He thrived on the lush realities
he had created, he wore them.
People, locations, objects
I had never heard of:
past lives that no one had lived in.
Polished, pure,
plenteous -
he kept them,
never in flux