Crux

She was so nihilistic; it was beautiful.

She was jocund
living on the edge of ecstasy
and within the boundary of
abjection

And when the colt is halfborn
wilting from the womb
We'll hear the song that the mockingbird moans

and of sudden
when the rain does sing and
the cats do cry

the children can snuffle and rot
giggle and patter
beside the black eyes and sharp teeth

with every cry

with every bubble

a bone will break


he'll bloom like flowers

at the sound.