O’ watch for a spindly ****
of a boy, with freckles
scattered like ants! With
timid face splattered with sins
and grins alike, he’ll dance.
Round dawn and night he’ll go
till eyes grow wide with fog.

Down his belt swings, tight and old,
his laughs creep long like silver snakes
birthed from mountain spring.
Yes, this youth of sparrow-chatter
had naked apolline humor, though
quietly when morning spread past his reigns
Dionysian he was in bearer pinker treads.

O’ know him you may as the flitting
shadows that wrap your eyes in sleep,
But test his temper! Bleat and ba
and call him friend!
And know, as bushes are coloured
with flower and thorn,
no dream is sum nor ample
lacking the seventh young prince of discord.

Oh, to that man who will come
split inside the Apolline.
Oh, to the onlookers
each one- whether salty pepper or
wet cement
match dim eyes and laugh lines
in mathematical ways
they wait for dinner.

they’re givers- I
unwrapped and
watched through grey pipes
No standing under.
knowing that thing
pretends to see me, hear me
doesn’t here see itself.

perhaps a musical man
pondering the notes
of my breaths.
Applying the theories
but not standing straight.
or a written man only
walking on the cracks
thinking of the sentences,
Sentences-
I can’t finish-
can’t finish-
finish for him.