The essence of actions may not be confirmed
and tend to sail through pompous pillars bobbing
on crests of breathless surfs back to ourselves,
may sink like pebbles in a blind well, reemerge
as dragons misconceived forever, forever named
and seldom deemed lone travelers who breathe
fire only to warm their clammy claws – they really
want to lean beside a silver stream and pluck
peaches from the gooseberry tree and paint
you there on doors unhinged from walls and vows.
Will it make you smile, Siroun, to watch the
friendly dragons led along by firefly constellations
without the moth’s rashness in the face of the candle?
Will you just look up once and smile at them with me?