The Rampant Gust by Ray Succre
He assembled weapons as his dignity
and called to beasts in belief,
“We’ve a project to start, ten, twenty, more.”
Like instigating mites, a cat’s ear flicker,
they caused history to bottle a single blink.
They worked about him, pledged, privileged,
slaved, like moth-flight, tittered atop open heat,
unable to escape a flame in a room.
His wants were a labyrinth drenched by sweat
He existed dozens of times across as many eras,
He was a basic man that could damn human rivers,