Canton Breeze

A Canton breeze, 

Burns my skin. 

Some half winged butterfly, 

Hesitates in the shadow of a leaf, 

Upon the gnarled bark, 

Of some seasick tree. 

Looks below and then above, 

And out into the black. 

A Canton breeze, 

Sprouts blisters on my skin. 

This heat is blowing embers, 

That poor creature has wings, 

Still vibrant with colour,

Yet to go under the needle, 

Of this Sun’s tattoo camouflage, 

The ink within the furnace, 

Is ever ready to be endowed. 

In the Canton breeze, 

I can feel the transformation. 


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