by Richard King Perkins, II
Dormant within a block of clay,
implausible to locate,
greyness crowds her unfashioned beauty.
She is serenity in the arroyos of California—
waiting for me to form her hands and breasts
into birds of paradise with wings of glass
that fly to me in a forlorn Illinois farm town.
Unused to the drafting of eidolon,
scarecrows and corn dolls
keep her embrazened in the town square
and watch from the street corners of pollen eyes.
I go to her in the most quiet moments of night
speaking of hermits and caves and fear.
Her patience is undivided and still.