Theorem #76

My heart's pillars glow at the threshold to my mind's arena, and
leaves dance a sizzle on branches.
A fellow ignites the machine rage of a fork lift, and
the stench of tarmac glazes the distant shimmer at noon.
The splendour of a winter's sky hovers,
bludgeons shadows into pores of concrete slabs;
and a slim wind dries up its flight, what mud on my soles, we ask?

Last rains of night's mist fold my shell for warmth -
and the night's bed is warmed by the day's fiery pulse.