The stone hero floats across the lawn,
approaching nonentity with drawn
leather briefcase.

Interpreting an after-dinner pause,
quietly admires a lady's claws
and perfect face.

A starving hope can be revealing,
her shattered glance up to the ceiling,
her throat in lace.

The power-crystal is only salt
and he can tell it's not her fault
she lost the race.

02/17/2008