The nostrils of the past flare in this walled creation, softly serpentine in its escavation of waves. Could it be that here, a million steps and swings from that sweet, frothy past, I miss the milk of home. Thirst only for a dip in the whitest drafts of past. Find nothing more pristine than a portly southern drawl and other drapes used to incite these Pinnochio nostrils, if not the ripe picking of the prickliest memory.
I have not been let down by the waves but only by the sands, those finest strands of time. It is in the wake of beaten promises and, far worse, my father, that for a moment I can feel I have escaped fate; can throw back into its bowl-eyed face the farce that I cannot feel.
It is my very fear of feeling those sweeping, strangling wings that now make me face my wounds alone. It is in an almost perfect sword dance that I perform, laughing, then bowing suddenly in short avoidance of shedding blood. Yet the blunt irony of these iron battalions is the familiar in the farthest away mountains blushed with life, are the fisherman in evergreen hats, dangerously beautiful in their nordic nostalgia. Are the strings of sentimentally-salted pork. Are blue pools, if not eyes, that even of inhuman, hard built brawn prove that ice, that time, that hearts do melt.
