Laying sidelong in a ditch
and comforting in pitchy briars.
At least fire can't eat this
cherubic child, but I can.
The crown of his head
susceptible to large talons.
His hands and feet curled
in the exhale of a large yawn.
And if I ate it, I'd eat it
and ravage the fit of eating
and live a little longer for it.
And if I the child I would
fight for life from giant jaws
or scalpel-like knife.
A pile of old Harpers Bazaars
as a pillow; the plasticized paper
is oxidizing and the joints are
inoperable in wrinkled atrophy.
My being sewn by the pitch
to the dirt on either rising side
slope. The running past me
feather-touch of drainage.
The futurist sense of being
on the edge of something moving
quickly, exciting toward it's quarry
in the white torrents of a river.
