For One

He who wear the childs' glove,

Who slips a thistle,

Through the blood,

Ran out the broken abbey cloak,

Tearing the stones of the grass-slabbed bank.

The bones were stolen in bloodback years.

But you are curving downwards pilgrim.

Thoughts of a face,

Unequal its' little arms and lips,

Opening a greening world from

Unfamiliar hips.

The pleasuring of birdings'

Bond that wraps a child in a love

Unending of the fang-ed cat.

She rip the air claw,

Still dripping milk.

And her pup is shaking in the bind,

Of tail, thigh,

And suckling nest.

For one;

A babe is the grave of love.

And kisses,

Can not swim their fishes,

Past the growl of the fissure.

No touch of curl, yet, no reflection,

Of yourself in eyes, to warm,

The chill you try to tame alone.

But thick the sharpening,

Low the sheafing,

Of the grief fields,

Burn Them Down.

Keep a quiet, tidy love.

The feline heart is not for you.

The father learns his post.

To wait.

And time shall unfinger the furlings of she,

And question her truths.

He will grow.

He will grow.