As I lie in the dark, his face, his voice
fall through the vortex followed by dream horses and volcanic ash.
Drifting reflections and echoes float away.
I recognize his whistles and metaphors muffled by the closed drawer I keep them in
Has he surrendered to the goblins of conscience yet? Has he changed his procedures?
His warriors gallop over my sleepless recollections They are the black outlines
and delineations of my pale form. To each form, quickly,
the sharp shadows of his frame.
Between darkfall and morning glow the whispers of night fade
the smoky Ninja vanish in the early clangor.