he rakes leaves with his chest like statues might in a Discobolus.
he would always cast down his eye on everything.
he had led a small-ish life so far, but consequentially,
or, because of it actually, he could hold onto a tiger and not bear down at all.
he whispered a fervent prayer and was surprised when his voice was engulfed
into a pandemic-like sea of other voices; this one nodding, that one cautiously still.
Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry