Hands are full
around the belly an
ash caul, of infant veil

sighs the tempest
breed of barren muse,

stricken wide and naked
I wear the hands of the enemy,
birthed and swollen by oblivion:

the jester is out, 364 weary,
ballistic and dead by denial

as the sun breaks knees
from flourish to incognito,

his eyes grow wild in sand
and weep with a mother's smile.