irises washed with night
swirling spheres
tapering into
purple powdered pirouettes
then a road
there is always more
tomorrow pulled under a carpet
blue faced and dream drunk
enough to create another dawn
and a breath, just enough
to arise, crusty and smelling
like an old goat’s rump
then a road, and a twist
a cleansing and sowing
a blossom of iris
there is always more...