One more from Khaos' Magic

Busker

He sings
the cosmic egg
on the tube’s platform;
his lyre case open
on greasy cement.

He composes lyrics
about fourfold
worlds, while others
drop crumpled bills
upon green felt.

His vision becomes words;
his words become worlds.
They ebb and flow
between the void
and Thoth’s light.

Zipporah shucks clams
with her flint knife.
Her son’s blood
mediates chaos
and appeases the groom.