The colossi of oblivion derive their

stature from what cannot be followed.

Twilight's pallored collapse gripped by a

leathery leaf, a pair of checkout keys on

a blear nightstand.

A mouth private about age gargles with

salt, then drags slippers away.

Lone headlights go off into a self-effacing

whoosh, an incomplete: bear in mind.

Then a heaviness is quietly told to be

seated, as if by a priest.

When some diabolical cleverness works

garlic cloves into a brain, as one grins

like a holiday lamb.

Evils that slur the speech of sleep, eight

hours of crime scene photos--fighting off

The Prince of Peace.

Where the colossi migrate as a state of

being, bring forth signs & break off into

smaller groups.

Until all that is left, can't be followed.