Arden's Quadberry

Druids, these revealed children
Blue umbrellas in the high blaze
Wandered through the plaza de las islas
Came to rest against white stone,
Shade.

An old man the youngest boy,
Squatting, thighs to calves,
Shower shoes, green shorts and tee and
Someone’s heart broke
This afternoon of orphan time,
Tiny Buddha in limestone shade,
Sister lying prostrate in the heat,
Lifeless, eyes open to searing blue.

Mother wayfare broods,
The bottom of her belly—copious—
Stars fall in the lap of he who wanders
Heart razor-wired to memory
Crossing dreamland, crossing shattered, crossing
The last stitch of time
These gathered ruins
These splattered lives
A boy whose syllables sing the song of 46:

Treasures?
Lies?
Sundays with fathers missed?
Pennies in his mother’s pocket?

Gather him, gather you
Riverbound, this one cool and
Clear. Gather. Cool hand upon his brow.
Gather. Birdsong in his heart, gold
Sun in his mouth. Count toes, count fingers—
Map the caverns from you to him,
Undertow of privation
Fields of weary, this weary world,
Worry world, worry.

What to give him, he me, my
Pockets too were empty—

My eyes. Here: take my eyes,
New and old,
The palms of your hands,
Cat’s eye, tiger, steelie

Etch your circle and let fly—

After the myths had fallen,
grain in the mist of fallen men,
we were chaff, thrown off:
exiled from the kingdoms of want.

We desired pain to cease,
organic hunger to rise:
a ruin's purge in the ache
of last night's Apriled dream.

This was the one we lost,
the one we measured
out of bosom's way:

List: day dawns rampant;
sentinels breed the gathered storm,
this font of wayward moss: green
Mary's kiss will wait no longer.

Stone upon fire,
fire upon stone:
the cardinal remembers well:
carrion on the lawn,
the ostensible wish,
the beryl reeling,
this miscreant faith.