Tactile weaponry
with a timer that counts
down for days. And the
Old Colours are
converging in a prism
and backing out together.
The old rules've
reset themselves but're
constant exploding.
Your arms drew
to your sides
in a shiver of delight
or cause it's chilly. I
am the shirtsleeves that
strain towards the wrists,
and wish that the goose
bumps would leave.
Smooth and waiting
is the countenance of
this handsome horse
alit, encased in velvet
reams blood red and
gilt harnesses, hindered
with heavy tarnished
joints—but supple yet.
