Russian dolls lined up in salute,
the old man cuts his hair on a lawn chair.
Framed stamps,
tiny pictures filled with ocean scenery and
salted on one side.
the Captains letter to his Solitary Queen
a cathartic rinse, a cool saline stare
filling the hollowness in her mind.
Words glowing in the dark iris centers
melting into mossy pools
floating paper skin
Tied with ribbons and resting on the crown
Don't cut it too short Papa.
