Tunnels to brackets,
stretched and stained,
you took your time with wax
and the ground particles
that made Nero’s bed sheets blaze
with the purple of a million emperors.
Consumed with thoughts and threads of saffron,
dacron, and human stories,
you were inside the navel
awaiting helios in ascension
and the rendering of new firelight.
Dedication to the fingertipped sense
of proto-mettalurgists,
fashioning truth out of hard stone,
clear water, and the rushing wild.
Your peace, shadow-covered
in the marble recesses of a quiescent,
structural modernity.