Chimera
In the wee hours
a child wakes, vexed by helium visions
his scream swaddles the room’s skeleton
with a larynx on fire
the bow of Orion emblazons
he gorges on the flesh of his thumb
coiled in his mother’s chiffon arms
raking rag-pickings of a tide
curdled limp as the red moon outside
where a man whittles a hymn
rescinding on the pores of his guitar
with black-raisin digits
that keep slipping
into mistakes, mistakes
but the rumble in his gut quiet and precise
like the thick blade of a night
pressed into the sky’s mouldy flesh
so they wait in quest
of the susurrous sun
that will pour its golden lard alike
the promiscuity of a promise
that may mend or break them.
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