beneath her bed
to be firm
He pulled out
to a cold,
There were no cries,
but the next day
they counted bruises
where their fingertips
had tried to turn
from her sister's bed;
he wants a shot at the other spread, wants to plant himself
headlong into new springs.
He won't stop with one good box
when there's another,
a fresh one over there, barely a generation's length away.
Isn't that what legends teach?--
the lesser god, persuaded by a young vision,
drifts like loose down,
is lulled with camel thirst to an endless well, and falls
mouth-first into an oasis.
He wakes up in an old children's book, fingering the pictures
of empty shoes till someone flips the page.