Hobble I do through the dim streetscape
to the four-winged statue
poised on the horizon
The little girl weeps,
struck with a switch.
I croon to her like a mother.
I brush her hair,
I untangle it like thoughts,
so many dark worms writhing
from tiny follicles,
seeking voices and tongues.
Her shock uncoils in silken waves,
strata of silt immemorial
packed in the immaculate river bed.
Angel of love enfold us
in your blood heat and feathers.
Stone be warm. Embrace us
in the boon of love.
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