reaches the paradise of fecundity ;
the green spirit, potent only
where desolation and arson gripe;
a spark that says everything
begins where everything
is
clinker;
the interred rainbow, a twin sister
of the one you set in your eye's target center
to shine on the sons of men,
on us, up to our gills in mud–
can you call her,
Sorella?
II
If
they called you a fox,
it will be for your monstrous hurtle,
your sprint that parts and unites,
that kicks up and freshens the gravel,
(your black lace balcony, overlooking
the home for deformed children, a meadow,
and a tree, where my carved name quivers,
happy, humble, defeated)-
or perhaps only for the phosphorescent wake
of your almond eyes,
for the craft of your alert panic,
for the annihilation of disheveled feathers
in your child's hand's python hug;
if they have likened you to the blond lioness,
to the avaricious demon of the undergrowth
(and why not to the filthy fish
that electrocutes, the torpedo fish?)
it is perhaps because the blind
have not seen the wings
on your delectable shoulder-blades,
because the blind haven't shot for
your forehead's luminous
target,
