Sun-catcher of a child,
Ever crushing light to mirthful specks
—Hue-kissed,
One pebble you jump from
To the next, where around the grave
of your glassy eyed dove they sit.

A candle in hands
yielding to the flushed flesh.

On one, then another, you jump
Muddy soles and tears
dried to a wakeful slumber.
Ships, donned with innocence,
set sail;
papers withered and wet
by the lips of this hazy stream—
My, how many letters did you write?

Sun, hold these eyes and sun,
cry they out,
Pearls and pearls
And pockets filled with melodies
of your long-hollowed dove,
You leave your prints
on the worshipping pebbles—
Deserted this desperation, is it not?
Then, run, I hiss, and—

You— you, naive, moon-loved of
a weakened rose,
Round and round you skid
(A ritual learned from the ballads of a dove)
A flicker in your palms
Try you
birthing yourself a god
Resurrect your dove, you will, you say.
You will, you will, you will!
How foolish this sorrow;
foolish more the hope it feeds.

And, tread away, I hiss.
Oh, tread away!
The haze is rising, as the old sun
shrinks—
That ******* of your chaste love—
Would that I
could mold ruin out of hatred,
would that, (but I am dry an angry cloud).

Tread away—
Oh, I shout a forest gone mad.
No frenzy, you have known, none
can you fathom.

Crystal waters of lakes dawn-licked,
Round and round you whirl
your ****** beloved dove.
(I will, I will, I will!)
Oh, but,
honey of my aridity,
the vultures are here, and— and
it is not your cold, grey dove
they desire.

Then you, so adorned a dream,
Softened to a violent idiocy—
Would that I
could grow cages out of despair,
You would have had enough of these doves
and their skies twinkling with tales

Then you,
honeyed tea, and sweets
with gold shrouded—
A tasteless devour—
The vultures are here,
Precarious sun-catcher!
Vultures! Vultures—
But did you ever really learn…