Tuesday, September 1, 2015

i am the king of the forward-rush, soles of feet
embarking across grass. it is dead grass. i give it

long lost touch. giving, in turn, is my
desire. the grass is now my child. the amount of children

a king can raise
is up to the children. they must find their way

into the world. do they want a lonely home by the sea, the sea
itself, a sad
relating most to unknown space, or would they like

the desert? in the desert, a child is given,
and wanders from there. sand surrounds; the desire of thirst

goes inside the child. i think it is there
the children go

to say they want the stars. a star

is where we all find ourselves.