You’d never kiss authority
so you’ll sleep,
beside the bellowing coast,
where rebels, and the refined,
vibrantly abide.

Your humble yet ardent hands lifted you along
to the city’s crisp breath
From a dusted, lulling valley,
to sow ones wild oats.
Not against meager bodies,
but bearing a craft,
your careful conceit.

Which are tiny ragged flags,
in which you place,
In the city’s obscured view.
Down sepia-dipped hallways,
in cracks of verdant omission,
desolate fields barring insignificance
until your revered flag,
is quietly rooted in its dirt.

When I step into the city,
my long pursuit
is to find your craft,
so I can place my shoes,
precisely and positioned
to where your modest feet resided
as two pale, endearing statues.
Examining the flags,
marking what you evoked
out of your landscape, out of me
in those vivid, hidden,
cloth flags.