Nut

A man with a tic
like a shot gun kick back
is shouting passages from Beowulf.
Caught in a rip-tide
that the rest of us can't feel,
his shoulders stutter
while his lips stay tuned
to pulling outs stanzas like Kleenex,
each line inviting the next.
His body folds, head suddenly in hand:
a fast-forward of grief
but the metre keeps stodging,
setting things straight.