'Ivory' Tusks And Friends Poem by James McLain

Shoulders bare denuded cloth so frail
silken whispers hang
from her wind pipe.
Inside four chambers of her heart my music
beckons there in
blood,
i stand then sit, as both my hands reach out.

Gather now the shroud of sand in grains
from golden honey pots.
The bees in flight can never find.
Many are the tusks you claim as friends,
I carried them away but weary, now i tire
as i turn from sand to dust.
My stones, you claim in time, as yours not mine.
When faces take a bath and light of golden sun.