My friend comes from the cornered hill,
He’s Martin, I pretend to be Candide.
He hollows ribs to pipes. His lips, once still,
Pucker, whisper, kiss songs from them and bleed.

Through struts which caged a throbbing heart, he wails
Then licks his lips—plays more—his cheeks turn red.
And Pan, master of the syrinx, fails
to match the song. He bows his goatlike head.

We two then dance and spew our tribal tune
Across the nights of June, erase old songs,
rewrite the bible’s psalms, and praise the moon.
The children we once were—caught on the prongs

Of pitchforks brandished high above our heads;
Adults we might yet be—cowering in bed.

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ChaoSpirals