at the tip of toy city
parades a thousand cadres
with helmets prehistoric to their coming
the house stands on the bank
of the only river holding salt as water
that river fogged by morning wetness
presumes its elevation, becomes erotic
to fondling of rain
reverberating and wailing and resurfacing
and secreting feet like sculptures
cut on clay soil
and recuperate their second coming
in so much time everything becomes myth
and the river respond to the grunting
of sky and flake to more dry places
and circle the mountain and its soggy
channels become soggier and cuddled
to embrace bodies yearning to wash
smashes out, bodies unbridled by mud
this is how a little toy city was erected
to keep cadres into sensation
with their war days, all fighting incapacitation
all now incapable of enjoying their production
and as the rain swiftly sojourned
the river moved back ward
robbed of its sensual mimicry
and the little city held people
to its utmost center and set them out
later when love is a pride.




Photo by John Moeses Bauan on Unsplash