The closest some ever get to their own empire
is reopening the pier during monsoon
using pliers to remove the cavaliers
running stitched tears refilling
The jars being slide in running
Board games the tiles rubbed
of they’re green
history brushed off in barbers chair
To catch a candied sloth growing
lichen too appease hangman
underneath from the rootless
boards of silent discognective
therapy salt quill of petre.
