Latin puppets.

The Narcissi group like
Latin crosses toward the
Pavilion. Incantations
In their guts- fanning flames
Of a dormant sun.

A rhythmic action,
Made of each
Life that loved them once.
As an omen of spring;
A calling stone, yellow
Inks draining to secret doors.
Stalks beside stalk—
A procession of promises
Unkept.

The grass is scribbling,
The ash buds bloody black.
A good beginning
To things moving everywhere.

The security guard, paces toward a
Real door, then slows,
Stops, decides there maybe work
Waiting within and chooses to give the
Grounds another leisurely circuit.
No one knew he was there,
No one saw how close he got,
To pressing his shoulder against the door
And turning the handle,

Nick J Wood

Sea sores 2018.