The gray walls

take my bleeding colors on.

I link the caves

by running toward the sun.

I tunnel through the lives

I left behind.  Some rooms

have women in them, some do not.

All their tresses hover over

mats and cots.  A good bed

pops up once in every tide.

We gather as it crests

and ride and ride.

The colors run from brush to brush

and run from knife to knife

the architecture furrows near our hush

and it erupts with sacred gushing

attuned to the machinery of touch.