walk into a teardrop
& the dove breathes rain
under the breathless
sun but a sad mote
on whose cheek these
mates congeal & do
their violence. What lives
in a tear? Perhaps a thousand
swimming angels, golden
cilia like whips of hair,
an illness to be baked out
by the grim star. Up close
the sun is not so friendly,
our old pal bottled
along with the rest, & he's
been dressed
in the costume of a kids'
show mascot. Where
he appears cuddly, he scathes.
Lacking any cloud,
he is nothing but a ball
of bubbling plasma & the
hate that's energized by his
billion secret shames. Who
cast him as this tubby,
benevolent sky-god
smiling down on so many
seasons of this dove's
adventures? Who gave him voice
as either asshat cackling babe
or dipshit dancer babbling
Laa-Laa-Laa?
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