Tap-dancing fools on the head of his pen; they
Smear themselves sleepy, prepared to give what they can,
To cave in like skulls—like beer bottles—
On the floor of his room (if asked).
It’s tripping over sorrow, he remembers,
It’s stubbing a toe.
To scream, just like he knows it hurts,
Like every day (and it shows).
“…just love what you can…and give the scraps back to her…”
The drooling, the dancing, the dreaming
Of something better yet to come—too late.
Full of truth: the children of the moon,
An eye of the sun, the end of a black rainbow.
The ultimate satellite of longing
Comes willing to phase in the sky,
Weak-kneed and pliant; a vision he’ll hate to lose,
But a shiner he’ll wear, well after it’s healed, with pride.