victory in the palm of the hand (specifically, the winged, laurel-bearing Nike -- goddess who personifies victory) it's a bit on the nose as is the bent front leg as if standing on the chest of a vanquished foe as is the looming, nothing says victory like looming (unless you're a weaver) but victory is never so unambiguously glorious as it's mythologized
the desert runs all the way to the lakeshore, where it - surely - ends?
nine miles down an old dirt road that runs the valley, the road disappearing before the pass, fading into a footpath, and then into a vague notion in a rare turn of events, i can see - but not hear - the whitewater that's running back toward from whence i came, and then on to a sea in some distant country i sit on a grassy hilltop, feeling i'm far enough down the road to be at peace
arrayed in pairs, mythical guardians stand aside a stone staircase the tourists seem undissuaded by the figures - be they freakish, grotesque, or mean the most dismaying of them may be the ones with a warm, polite grin... and a lion's body
Pandemic street art
lingers on the walls —
just like its grounds
the white walls
of the funerary bath
glow with morning light
floodwaters rise.
peacefully drifting
around the calves
of those in search
of things that float
Tiger Riding for Beginners 