Gasping
In your shadow,
To you, I scribble
In this little book.

Of a hornet
Whose glass wings
were shattered
by your skin
Watch him squander
atop your ivory toes,
pleading
you might hear
the clattering
of his gaunt limbs
as they crumple
and snap.

Of a vacant egg
after half its body
was swept up
by the wind
now festering
in the dried remains
of its splattered pearl.
How many dusks
And dawns
did this fledgling
spend snuggled
in your skyward arms
to wind up
a meager stain
on your chin?

Of a wilting boy
calm in clay
shaken in spirit
who wasted
too many years
praying for
your stony eyes
to fall
as his have.
Suffocating, he offers
dying souls
a fool’s paradise
that you,
Sweet Basilica,
will part your leaden lips
and breath each
And every breath
you take.

Silly, I know,
but for him
he imagines
you will.

Won't you?