Taut, Not Taught

Swigs of sun make a man
Camus. Albert swung for 
the beaches, delivering 
unfeeling bullets of strange
capitulation, swerving always
into the blue and the yellow
brilliance, argumentation 
with willful death. A happy
breath? A little too aggressive
for these umbrella trees. This
boulder demands a pair of 
condemned hands, and to
be late to your fate is to 
on time to the mindful
destiny, the blindfolded
icicle that never leaves
a trace.