The swell
of cedarwood, deep in the burrow
Ambrose waits, and he is risen

where winter rests
in a bed of water, soft smiles
pale faces

blue babies in golden reeds.

swollen still
in the stillness of tomorrow,

of yesterday's grief, to be
reborn every morning
in the pineal quest of
nirvana, the navel's bud,

to grow yellow, languid
from the icy bloom
of self defeat

and smile, smile.