Little Puppet of the Sun
Holy terror is the humming bird,
terrible wisp of ambition, ingot
of green rain, of impossible delay.
You sacred jet, seize each tense
molecule, let theory rock on its shoulders,
let nothing be forbidden.
And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
We ache on the soft palate of the foot,
the iron of earth’s age pulls us
downward. Each thrust
is a worry, a pantomime of wings,
shadows dislocate, twist in grievous white.
Holy is the humming bird,
keen as a blade of tongue.
You wine drift of freckles,
you talisman of glory,
little puppet of the sun, tell me –
will speed bring us closer to liquid desire?
Copyright 2011 TAWhite
