carving

inch
  by inch,

rather,

micrometer by manometer,

                                        canyons are carved.

like a crayon,
         craving for a four year old's hand,

you carve a smear across my wall.

                                                   Stress builds.

you were just playing.
you do not understand
                                 the history

that brought us to this breaking point,
                                                       the number lashes
                                                       whipped by westerly winds that finally made way for

                                        a canyon.
   



I feel I am fighting the wind.

it laughs.