Navy Colonel Ken
carving away at me; in tension
these
limestone automatons
standing on the shoulders of giant jade amazons
and
a kindling pine box
engulfed with a whisper
light pulsing peerlessly in ever-existent night
Like a lavish daffodil dancer
weaving amber scarves
then
when it dies, there is dawn; and violet horizons
and I am
beckoning for but a breeze; flush gusts
to waft over weather-worn skin
just to remind it - of it
from within
