A little child surly cries in his crib
The poet smokes rings in nights still
Owls hear a baby’s suckling howl
The poet dreams of virgin thighs above
The baby rocks its unclenched fists
The poet curses invalids, critics, priests
The baby grinds a breast warm with milk
And queries past its dry demanding ilk
Tomorrow, the lions will dine within
Deserts covered in gringo signed oil rigs
The poet will mute screams obscure
In language pearled fires unborn
Triple somersault launch stride to heaven
Babies fetch up time, read, stare, weep.
Bedros Afeyan
8-19-2012
Pleasanton, CA
